High Society
by Quills2
Summary: It's 1898. Elena lives a dispirited life as the Princess of Bulgaria. One day, she meets Count Damon de la Salvador, who changes her entire world. AU. Adult Content.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **High Society.

****

Summary:

It's 1898. Elena lives a dispirited life as the Princess of Bulgaria. Then, one day she meets Count Damon de la Salvatore, who changes her entire world. AU. Adult Content.

**Rated:** M

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

* * *

Princess Elena of Bulgaria may not know much of life, but of this she knew was true—Marriage was a business affair. It wasn't like the poetry she had memorized and loved. It wasn't like the songs she heard. Nor was it like the operas she used to watch. No, marriage was a loveless affair meant to produce heirs due to dynastic obligations. And her marriage was no different. Marriage to the Prince of Bulgaria should have been a joyous one. Perhaps if her husband had appreciated her looks a bit more. Perhaps, if his eyes didn't wander in the direction of his strapping Bulgarian soldiers they would have had a chance. Perhaps…

She had given him three beautiful children. Yes, she had. And perhaps it was a fleeting attempt to gain his love and affection. But after their daughter Eudoxia was born, something in her died. It was fitting, she mused. She had given life to her children as her own crumbled into pieces before scattering like ashes in the wind. She rarely saw her children. They were with their royal handlers and Elena had to admit that she was much more sedate with them gone. She was too weak. Bearing three children in four years had taken its toll. And so she spent her days in bed or wandering the gardens of the Vrana Palace. She preferred this "weekend retreat" as her homestead—more so than Euxinograd or the Royal Palace. She loved her gardens, her fountains and the beauty of the wildlife here. She had come to most love a darling flower from Macedonia—a gift from the Turks called a Poppy Flower. And with the art of extraction, she spent more time in an opium daze than not. She could not, for the life of her, describe the euphoria. It felt like home—the only time that she was comfortable and content. She felt as if there was nothing else in the world that mattered when she was under the beguiling spell of her magical little flower. Matthew, her husband, would not have it and forbade the flower from being cultivated in Bulgaria. 'It turns my people into ghosts,' he said. But Elena had her ways. Though, when there were months where it wasn't to be found, she took to having long night rendezvous with champagne and wine. Oh, the beauty of intoxication.

On the rare occasion that Elena was not under the influence of any substance, she was morose and withdrawn. Her life was a solitary affair. And while she had dear friends, she usually kept herself at a mental distance. Tea time was a vapid waste—women congregating to gossip over the scandals of Bulgaria and Europe abound. She often sat in the corner, her mind wandering, and her heart rarely into the conversation.

It was March, and winter was in its last throes of its chilling embrace before spring took hold. She longed to see Parma violets in her garden once more. They reminded her of home. She even missed the Bulgarian roses. She longed for the sunshine. Though, in begging for spring, she knew she was begging for time to move forward. With every day that passed, it brought Prince Matthew closer to her. As a dignitary, he was often away from home, but he was expected soon…so very soon. She was not looking forward to the reunion. So she wrapped herself in the coldness of winter, wishing for time to stand still.

And time did stand still for one brief moment—the moment that a curious Count from the House of Savoy visited Sofia. His name was Count Damon de la Salvatore.

**Three weeks later.**

**Sofia, Bulgaria. 1898. Vrana Palace.**

A Count? Something struck her strange when Elena was first introduced to Damon Salvatore in the Parlor Room. Something strange indeed. He breezed into Vrana with the airs of high society and accompanied with a rather impressive mastiff. He snapped his fingers and his dog obediently sat on his haunches. Damon removed his black top hat in a sweeping gesture and bowed low to Elena. And although he was the picture of a gentleman, she felt as if she was being mocked. When he raised his head, his eyes connected with hers. They were the most startling shade of blue that she had ever seen. They were the cool ice in a Bulgarian winter and they bore into her with an audacious stare that, had there been witnesses, would cause a scandal. He took her hand and without warning, pressed her lips against it.

"Your majesty," Damon purred in greeting.

A current flew through Elena's veins and she pulled her hand back, out of instinct, and shocked at his boldness. She heard the shout of a nearby guard due to Damon's liberties and she raised her hand to dismiss him from the room.

Damon stared at the guards mildly, unaffected, as they departed the room.

Elena adjusted the wide, dark mustard colored skirt of her dress. She was barefoot, though her feet were hidden underneath her pleats. She had been wandering the gardens with her chaperone when they were alerted of their guest. He had given no notice to his arrival—an action she found rather uncouth. She had made no attempt to re-dress. Her hair looked wild, as it had come loose from her hair pins. And her skin was pale and cold from the chilled breeze of the late morning.

"You forget yourself, Count," Elena murmured as she perched herself onto a settee.

Damon sat beside her without invitation and grabbed her hand insolently.

"My most humble apology, Your Highness. I am quite beguiled with your most lovely charms."

Elena pulled her hand from his grasp. This man! He was not a gentleman in the least. He was far too comfortable, as if this was his own palace. And charms! She was the picture of modesty and propriety. And to insist that she elicited her _charms_ on him was offensive.

"What brings you to Sofia," she asked at last.

"You, the Princess Elena of Bourbon-Parma, of course. I bring good tidings of your family."

"Bourbon-Parma? I haven't been referred in such a way since—"

"Since before you wed the great Prince of Bulgaria?"

Elena's eyes flickered towards him, saying nothing.

"What news of my family? I haven't heard from them in years."

"Your mother is with child, they say."

Elena scoffed and stood.

"My mother is with our Lord and Savior. That woman is of no relation to me. She is my Father's wife and nothing more. Beyond that, you scandalize me by acknowledging a woman's _condition_. "

"I apologize."

Elena turned, walking through the parlor. She turned on her heels back towards Damon.

"You travelled from Italy to bring this news?"

Damon said nothing, a small smirk across his lips.

Elena's eyes narrowed. He was reveling in her displeasure. She already despised this man. And yet her proper upbringing pressed her into being a suitable hostess in her husband's absence.

"Do stay for dinner," she requested through gritted teeth.

"It would be my _pleasure_."

Damon absently patted the head of his dog as he watched Elena exit the room. The pleats of her skirt danced as her hips swayed, her bare feet peeking out as the stepped across the marbled floor.


	2. Dining with the Devil

Dinner was a dizzying affair.

It was rare for visitors to come to Vrana, thus the royal chefs took great pains in creating lovely dishes for their "exotic" Italian guest.

Lukanka. Shopska Salad. Tarator. Moussaka. The table was a festive affair for two. Winter was a solitary time in the palace—so Elena lacked the pleasure of having additional guests to distract her from the Count. The dishes were placed on the finest bone china, brought over from the Royal Palace. Elena was severely displeased and would have preferred that this interloper receive ill treatment on his stay. But standard royal decorum took precedence over anarchy.

She stared boldly at Damon throughout dinner, her hand clutched to her wine glass. Every now and again she rung a small bell and a servant with a decorated wine decanter refilled her glass.

"So," her voice boomed through the quiet, "How does life fair in Italy? Last word I happened upon was that there were all sorts of banditry and uprisings with the poverty stricken."

Damon had his elbow propped on the table, his chin settled in his open palm. Quite rude, in fact. He hadn't touched his dinner. Instead he was languidly nursing his glass of spirits.

"I don't bore myself with the misfortune of others," he said, uninterested. "But I have heard that they are embarking for America in droves."

Elena tapped her fork against the side of her plate. She took an irritable sip of her wine and gave Damon a side long glance. As time progressed, her tapping became louder and her sips became deeper. It became so loud that her servant, thinking she heard the bell asking for wine, entered the dining hall several times before quickly exiting with quiet apologies. Damon, however, seemed unaffected as he was now walking about the dining hall, inspecting the art work along the walls. Elena finally slammed down her fork and turned in her chair.

"Does our cuisine not please you, Count Salvatore?"

Damon bent towards a painting, examining it closer.

"Oh no, it's pleases me just fine," he drawled, distracted.

"Then, pray-tell, why have you not touched a bite? I commissioned my personal chefs to go to great lengths to impress our…_guest_."

Damon turned towards Elena, visibly sizing her up.

Elena's corset was tied severely, her waist seemingly tiny. She wore a white high collared bodice with ruffled capping at her shoulders. The sleeves were tight, long, and snugly fit at her wrists. Her gored skirt was a dusky rose color, fitted at her hips and flared out beginning at her knees to the floor.

Damon leaned into the wall, crossing his arms carelessly.

"Great lengths," he asked.

"Quite," she said shortly, turning her attention to her wine.

Damon gave a half chuckle and looked about the room.

"Let us not have any illusions, your majesty. Wouldn't you rather go through great lengths to rid me from your sight?"

Elena, although inebriated, lifted her head sharply and stood. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped short. She turned towards her chaperones and guards.

"Leave us," she commanded.

As soon as the door was shut, she turned back to Damon.

"Sir, I am not sure what you intention was for coming to my court. If it was to taunt my family and my good name, you have made a severe miscalculation. And I assure you, when my husband returns-"

"When your husband returns, you will be thrilled, no doubt," Damon said silkily.

Elena hesitated.

"While it is none of your concern, of course, I will be. I welcome my loving—"

"Please," he raised his hands, smirking, "that's quite enough. All of Europe is well aware of the great…_affection_ you and the Prince share."

Elena felt suddenly foolish, as if this man could see right through her. She felt rather naked and it was disconcerting.

He moved towards her with the stealth of a stalking cat. His eyes were wicked, mocking, sapphire jewels set aflame. Elena took a step back, pressing her chair back with her. She was suddenly afraid and considered screaming out for her guards. But pride was a stubborn emotion and she stood fast. He couldn't have been less than a foot in front of her. She hadn't been this close to a man since…

"You're heart is beating as fast as a little bird," he purred.

"You," she breathed uncomfortably, "can't possibly hear my heart."

"Oh, but I can."

Elena's lips parted but she said nothing. She felt herself become very warm and she was sure that her face was reddening with embarrassment.

"You're exceedingly inappropriate, Count," she said softly, blinking rapidly.

"Indeed?"

"Yes…" Elena looked about the room, hazily deciding where to move to create distance between her and this man. Before she had a chance to form her thoughts into action, he leaned in, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You remind me of a lovely garden violet," he whispered, "A lovely drunk little garden violet. Now tell me, little flower, when was the last time your petals were caressed?"

Elena had never slapped a man before. Elena had never slapped anyone before. But her hand connected with Damon's face with a stern crack of a whip. The contact didn't move him an inch. And even though Elena was drunk, her hand strung acutely.

Damon's face was frozen for a second. And for an instant, Elena's eyes deceived her so that Damon's eyes looked bloodshot and his veins prominent. When she blinked, it was gone. A slow smile began to spread upon his lips.

She held her hand in shock. Did she just hit this man? Lord, she had too much to drink. But he was lecherous and improper. Wasn't he? The room began to spin slowly. And Elena was very sure that she was going to be sick. She grabbed her wine glass, swaying lightly, as she walked towards the door.

"My most gracious apologies should be made, surely, Count," she heard herself babble.

"Apology accepted," his smile deepened sinfully.

Elena frowned, reaching out towards the door for balance. Oh, if he would only stop making her feel so foolish, the lout!

"Do join me for breakfast tomorrow—consider it an olive apology," she heard herself say.

"It would be _my pleasure_."

She shoved open the door, falling into the arms of her guard. She held onto her wine glass, spilling its remnants down her chin and onto the arm of the guard.

"Oh!"

She pointed at Damon as she departed, carried like a child.

"Tomorrow then," she slurred, taking an imaginary sip from her glass.

He roared with laughter, his hands laced behind his back, as he made his exit from Vrana.

* * *

This sun rose with a severe headache for Elena the following morning. Propped on her pillows wearing only her chemise, Elena groaned audibly when her maids pulled open the curtains to sunshine. Elena shielded her eyes for a long moment. After several moments, she drifted her fingers to her temples and massaged them methodically. Oh, what she wouldn't do for her opium now…

"I'll receive my breakfast in here," she stretched.

Her four maids looked at each other quizzically though said nothing.

Elena lifted her head off of the pillow.

"What is it," she asked, suddenly feeling very alarmed.

"The Count, Your Majesty. You invited him to breakfast with you this morning…"

Elena swore an oath as the previous night came stumbling clumsily back into her memory. Though hazy, she remembered her half hearted invitation to the Count. And like a slow ember that was fanned into a flame, she remembered his questionable conduct. She remembered his eyes. Then, she remembered his mouth as he spoke his improprieties. She felt herself beginning to turn a shade of pink with the memory. The boorish man. And here she had foolishly committed to another meal with him! She turned to her maids, sighing audibly.

"Dress me," she instructed, annoyed.

Damon was already seated in the Solarium, reading a liberal newspaper—the _Nezavisimos—_when Elena made her entrance. When Damon saw her, he tossed the newspaper carelessly onto the table and stood.

Elena wore a jade green gown with a flowered train. The neckline was modest yet her collarbones were exposed, her sleeves were ruffled and off the shoulder. Her hair was rolled into curls, divided into three strands, knotted in the back and held in place with shell combs. Although she would never admit it, this was the most that Elena had dressed up in months. She looked heavenward towards the glass ceiling, wondering if it would be bad form to use a parasol indoors.

Damon bowed low, his arm bent horizontally across his chest.

"Your majesty," he said smoothly.

Elena's handlers carefully handled her gown as she settled herself into her seat.

"Count Salvatore," she greeted.

"Please," he said, "Call me Damon."

"Damon," she corrected herself.

It was slightly foreign to call a man by his Christian name, especially when living amongst men with titles. She took a small pleasure in this—like when she used to sneak chocolates from her dinner table as a child.

"Damon," she began again, "I must explain my conduct-"

Damon raised his hand.

"Please," he smirked, "I already have created such a colorful version for myself. I'm not so sure that I'd like my illusion shattered."

Elena quieted, reaching for her mimosa and drank it thoroughly. After she settled the glass down, she appraised Damon. With a lift of her hand, she excused everyone else from the room. After they left, she spoke.

"You're very strange," she boldly mused.

"Thank you."

"I'm not so sure that was a compliment…"

"I'm not so sure that I would mind if it wasn't," he retorted.

His eyes flickered mysteriously and Elena relaxed into her chair, looking at him, and her mind wandered thoughtfully.

"How long do you plan to stay in Sofia," she asked.

"As long as it pleases me," he said cryptically.

"I see."

"How long are we going to play this game," he asked suddenly, eyeing her strangely.

Elena perked up, tilting her head.

"Game? How do you mean?"

"How did you do it, Katherine," he asked curtly.

Elena furrowed her brow.

"Katherine? Are you unwell?"

Damon's hands shot out, gripping her wrists painfully. His eyes were alive and he looked at her in a way that she hadn't seen before. A lock of his hair fell carelessly over his forehead and his jaw was set strong.

"After everything I did for you!"

Elena gasped, pulling her arms back into her lap.

"I don't know what you mean, _Damon_, but you're clearly confused."

The light suddenly went out in his eyes and after a beat, he settled into his seat again. His fists clenched and unclenched. He pushed his hair from his forehead and slouched slightly in his chair. Elena's chest rose and fell heavily, her heart hammering in her chest. What had just happened?

Neither said another word. Both turned and stared out the window and into the garden. A swallow sung happily in the distance, coaxing Springtime like a snake charmer.


	3. Garden Party

**One week later.**

Elena caressed her wrists absently, light bruises formed where Damon's tight grasp had been that morning at breakfast. They had sat in the solarium for hours, words not exchanged and eyes not connecting. When it was high noon, Damon left. His fingers had brushed, just barely, against her fingertips. And as Elena turned in alarm, he was already standing. He had stared down at her for a long moment, almost as if he were gauging something within his mind. He offered no parting salutations as he strode past her, from the room and out of the Palace.

It was late afternoon a week later and there had been no sight or word of him. Perhaps he had left back to Italy. That idea left Elena with conflicting emotions of jubilation and disappointment. She refused to ask about him. Her thumb slid over her wrist softly. She pulled her sleeve over it protectively as her steward crossed the garden towards her.

Elena lay atop a mass of blankets that she had settled in a field of flowers and underneath the shade of a tree. The sun was warmer today. Flowers were beginning to blossom and she was having an afternoon champagne picnic to welcome it. She twirled her parasol thoughtlessly while the steward bowed and stood at attention.

"Yes," she asked, sipping her champagne, before lying back on the blankets.

"The Count Damon de la Salvatore has again, called on you unannounced. Shall we send him away?"

Elena watched her parasol as she spun it in her hand, the lace patterns became a kaleidoscope.

"No," she sighed finally. "Bring him. Thank you."

"Here? Madam…" The steward's tone had darkened considerably.

Elena looked up at him.

"Perhaps it would be more proper indoors," he continued.

"So this," she gestured with her hands, "would be _improper_? Is that what you are saying to me? I'm well aware that you are my Husband's personal emissary, Lockwood, but watch your tongue. Do as I say."

She dismissed him with a flick of the wrist and turned to her ladies in waiting.

"He's insidious," she said suspiciously. "Watch him, dear Caroline. He does not have our interests at heart."

Caroline, her chief Lady in Waiting, nodded calmly as Tyler Lockwood crossed the garden in his exit.

"He's crushing the roses underfoot," she yelped suddenly.

"But yes," Elena said dreamily, "Who are the roses?"

After several moments, Damon could be seen at a distance, coming towards them. Elena realized all of her ladies were holding their breath. Their backs were a bit straighter and their chests pressed a bit forward. She was amused if slightly annoyed. Elena raised herself somewhat on the back of her elbows. As he came closer, she sat up and smoothed her dress. It was a wasp-waist cut dress with vertical stripes of crème and pink, trimmed in pale crimson. Her squared décolletage was lined in lace with small rosettes. She wore matching high buttoned tiny heeled shoes that were tucked under her folded legs. Her hair was swept up in a mass of curls and tucked underneath a cunning hat covered in roses. She lifted her hand to him as he neared.

"Count," she said.

Damon bowed low, taking her hand and kissing it.

"Your majesty," he purred, and turned. "Ladies, how do you do?"

The ladies grabbed their fans, setting them aflutter as they bowed their heads. Damon caught the eye of the blonde one—she stared back at him boldly, a small smile on her lips. Damon raised his brow, amused.

Elena caught the exchange between Damon and Caroline and was _not_ amused.

"You may all take your leave," she murmured to her ladies.

And so Caroline, Bonnie and Victoria stood carefully. They bowed to Elena and strode across the yard and disappeared into the palace.

Damon was standing, still, and staring down at Elena.

Elena gestured towards the layers of coverlets.

"Please join me," she beckoned.

Damon settled himself onto the blanket several feet from Elena. He grabbed a bottle of champagne from her basket and took a nearby flute, pouring it to the brim. They were settled in a patch that was surrounded by Chrysanthemums, Parma Violets and Military Orchids. Elena thought about Matthew—how often did she try to get him to picnic with her in the garden? 'I don't want to roll around in the dirt,' he'd say. She sighed lightly, sipping more of her champagne.

"I do declare that I have yet to see you lacking a glass of alcohol in your hand, your Majesty."

Elena looked at Damon over her champagne flute and deliberately finished the contents.

"That's no concern of yours."

"It never was. It was only an observation."

"How observant you are," she mocked.

"Tell me," he grabbed a small cluster of grapes from the basket. "What are you sedating?"

"Excuse me," Elena asked, already on the offense.

"Why would a lovely and wealthy Bulgarian Princess take solace in a daily ritual of wine and champagne unless there was something she was trying to dull within her?"

"That's none of your business!"

Damon shrugged and laid back on the blanket, popping a ripe grape into his mouth.

"Possibly. It's more rhetorical than anything. Perhaps it'll allow you a moment for introspection."

Elena tried to think of a retort but came up empty.

She lay back in the blankets, staring at the magnificent blue sky. They were both were lying diagonally towards each other, the top of their heads only inches apart. A European Bee-Eater flew into the branches of the tree above them. It flitted from branch to branch, singing a pleasant trill as it welcomed spring. It looked like a little jewel floating amongst the leaves.

"I don't particularly enjoy your company," Elena admitted coolly, lacing her hands across her stomach.

Damon turned his face slightly, watching her as she stared heavenward.

"The feeling is rather mutual," he said, seemingly unaffected.

Elena tilted her head, catching Damon's eyes.

"What? Why," she asked, clearly displeased.

"You're a woman with far too much power than she knows what to do with. You're spoiled."

Elena settled back into her former position.

"That's extremely untrue. I'm very pleasant. My husband has been the recipient of many compliments regarding my character."

"Ahh," Damon said sweetly, "Your husband."

"I don't appreciate your tone."

Damon laughed, saying nothing.

"Furthermore," Elena continued, "I've let you get away with far more than I should have to endure. People have been severely admonished for much less in this court."

Elena pressed her back into the blankets, trying to get come comfortable.

Silence became forefront between the two of them. The sun took solace behind the clouds and the wind swept up errant petals, having them dance like puppets in the breeze. Elena listened to the birds, her mind wandering. She couldn't understand why she felt so anxious. She was nearly shaking and she could feel hear heart beating thunderously against her ribcage. She couldn't have been sure how much time had passed when she turned to look at Damon. His arms were casually folded behind his head. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping. Elena slowly turned onto her stomach, watching him with curiosity. Who was this man? The Count, yes. But who was he really? And why was he here? He had the profile of a Roman God, she mused. Her eyes drifted over his body. He wore a Norfolk jacket in stunning dark tweed with matching breeches. His skin was pale, she realized. Very pale. Sickly, almost. She couldn't recall noticing it before. He had seemed more…bronzed last week. Or perhaps it was her eyes playing tricks on her again.

"Who is Katherine," she asked gently.

He didn't move or acknowledge her for a long moment. Elena thought that perhaps he truly was asleep. As she began to extend a cautious arm towards him, he spoke, causing her to jolt back into sitting position.

"A friend," he said shortly.

"Does…she look like me," she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Very much?"

Damon opened his eyes and turned his face, staring up at her. His eyes were cyan hypnotic pools that poured over her. He looked into her eyes and slid his gaze to her nose and cheeks. They glided over her mouth for a long moment before sliding down her neck and past her collarbone. Elena felt herself grow self conscious as he eyes drifted lower to her breasts and to her waist. It was as if his gaze was caressing her with a soft feather—gliding across her hips and to her legs and ending at her feet.

"Yes and no," he said finally.

"Cryptic," she sighed heavily. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath.

He sat up then, his eyes back on her face.

"You could be twins," he mused. "You look very much like her. But in the eyes…there is something different."

He reached out to touch her face but stopped short, dropping his hand to his side.

"Different?"

"Yes," he said finally, before laying back down.

Elena lay down again and grabbed at the blankets, curling them in her fists. She stole a quick glance at Damon and saw that his eyes were closed once more.

"You do realize how inappropriate this looks, don't you," she asked softly.

Here she was—laying in the garden, un-chaperoned, with a strange man. She—the Princess of Bulgaria.

She watched as his lips curled upward slowly.

"I realize it very much," he said calmly.

He yawned and stretched, shifting comfortably in the thick sheets. They laid there well into the afternoon, saying no more. Damon kept the champagne nearest to him, so after that first initial glass, Elena drank no more. She napped quietly amongst the birds, the flowers and his presence. And when she awoke a few hours later, he was gone.

The next morning, Elena woke with a clear head. She found that she was in somewhat higher spirits than usual. It pleased her.

Her pleasure was short lived, however. Not long after breakfast, Elena received word that Caroline was found, near death, at the Royal Palace. Her body was discovered inside of the zoo that had been created on the grounds. She was found lying beside the lions cages. Obviously, she had been attacked, her throat torn into with sharp teeth.


	4. Hunger

He was a vampire first and man second. He had been insatiable. Lying there with her so close and him so…so starved? Damon still had trouble keeping his impulses at bay. And Elena was making it increasingly difficult. He had wanted to yank her from her blankets and sink his fangs into her throat. He wanted her blood to pour from her neck and onto his tongue as they lay underneath the shade of the tree.

When Damon left Elena, he was shaking with need. It had been two days since his last meal and he felt weak. He needed release and he needed it soon.

Elena. Who was she? Why did she look like Katherine? It was clear after that day in the solarium that she was most definitely not her. It had been 34 years since he had seen Katherine last. And perhaps he was more in love with her than ever. Word travels swiftly among the supernatural. There were whispers that Katherine was in Bulgaria. A vampire had seen her and swore it was she on the throne. And so that was why Damon had made his way to Sofia. He had heard rumors before. And they were all unfounded. But this time it was different. They were nearly identical. He had told Elena that hadn't he? But it was the eyes...

Katherine's eyes had a definitive spark. There was an evil in her gaze that even he could recognize. Elena's eyes could have been the eyes of a woman a thousand years old. She was nearly dead behind her eyes. She was a woman who deliberately incapacitated herself to function. But there was no evil. None at all. At first he thought perhaps that Katherine somehow turned human. Maybe Emily had created some kind of spell? He now knew he was wrong. It wasn't Katherine. All of his reason told him to leave. Elena, although not evil, was rude, spoiled and somewhat unbalanced. And again, not Katherine. Even still –

Damon nodded to his footman, Jeremy, as he opened the door to his carriage. Before he even moved into the coach, he knew that someone was sitting in there waiting for him. He settled into his cushioned seat and stared across at the mischievous blonde. He shut the door, immersing the carriage in near darkness.

"Is this too forward," Caroline asked mischeviously.

"Does anyone know you're here," Damon questioned.

"Of course not," Caroline shook her head.

"Then it's perfect."

No one heard Caroline's small scream as Jeremy whipped the horses into a trot away from Vrana. Damon settled Caroline into his lap, her back pressed against his chest. Her legs dangled like a handsomely lifeless doll. He wrapped one arm tightly around her waist while his other hand kept her face still and her mouth shut. His fangs were tiny, efficient knives and they slid into her flesh like warm butter. He thought of Elena. His jaw tightened over Caroline's neck. _Elena in her mustard colored dress and her bare feet_. Caroline began to gurgle, her lips moving against his palm like a dying fish. Damon's hand fisted Caroline's dress at her waist—crumbled lace and ribbon. _Elena in her green dress and wine stained mouth. _Damon shuddered, his teeth completely slicing through Caroline's skin like scissors. He forced his face up from her neck, gasping as if he'd been drowning.

"Christ," he rasped shakily.

Although he was new to being a vampire, he was usually very careful when choosing his victims. Caroline was breathing slowly, laboriously. She was still alive. Typically, he took pleasure in killing his victims. Or he drank just enough and compelled them to forget. But this…! It was careless. Damon swore quietly and banged on the carriage roof. They would need to make an inconvenient detour.

* * *

Elena sat in the drawing room, contentedly staring at the wall. Her hands were folded calmly in her lap.

"I came as soon as I could," Damon called out.

He stood in the doorway and watched as the guards, strangely without provocation, left the room. Elena didn't acknowledge him for a long moment. She sighed sweetly after a time and turned her head slightly.

"How kind," she murmured.

Damon walked towards and stood in front of her. She blinked slowly and stared through him. Damon squatted to eye level and took Elena's chin in his hand.

Her eyes were contracted to small pinpoints—tiny grains floating in the center of a coffee cup. He stood slowly. He'd been to opium dens all across India. He was no stranger to seeing its effects. He never thought twice about it. It made picking his prey so much easier with they so docile. And he had to admit that their blood calmed his mood and made him thoughtful. Though for some reason, he currently found himself irritated with the situation. He gave a dry half laugh before grabbing Elena by her shoulders and pulling her into standing position.

She reacted slowly, distracted, her eyes not quite meeting his.

"What?"

"Opium," he asked, not needing an answer.

Elena's mouth melted into a small smile.

"Who gave it to you?"

"Hmm?"

"Who gave it to you?"

"Sir John," she breathed, trying to keep her eyes open. Oh, but they felt so much better closed. She just wanted to lay down, her eyes closed to the world.

"Goddamnit, Elena" he cursed.

Damon nodded then, biting his lip as he did so. He filed that information away in his head for later use. He was shaking with anger, frustration and maybe with confusion. What bothered him most of all was why? Why did this bother him? I wanted to strangle the life out of her in that moment. He abruptly cupped Elena's face in his hands, staring at her. His eyes were dark, intense, and utterly focused on hers.

"You," he said, "are a stupid, stupid woman."

He crushed his mouth against her suddenly, roughly. Elena's lips parted slowly. His kiss was like velvet, like a dream. He dug his fingers into her shoulders harshly. She felt as if their mouths were dissolved into one. He was the "something" in the waves of her wonderful nothing. And a small voice of clarity, in the far corner of her mind, was startled. Count Damon de la Salvatore was kissing the Princess of Bulgaria. It was wrong. Dangerous. She tilted her body forward; her eyes shut, and felt herself stumble.

He was gone.


	5. Aida

He wanted her. For the love that all that was holy and unholy, he wanted her in the worst way. He wanted to push her down onto the shiny, marbled floor and lift...

Damon groaned, annoyed, as he sat in his coach.

This foolish woman would be the end of him. He wasn't even sure if he truly was fond of her. She acted flippant more often than not. Then again, so did he. She was a drunk. So was he. Though, she didn't wear it well at all. And now, above everything else, she was slave to opium. She irritated him beyond end. He hated her, he decided. But Christ! That mouth, those eyes. He ran his hands over his face. He could have had her. Right there. Right there in drawing room. What stopped him? Now was not the time to have a conscience. Why was he even here? _She wasn't Katherine. _He'd leave. Yes, he would leave. Tomorrow. No, no! Soon. He would leave soon, he told himself.

Until then, he would find out exactly who this "Sir John" was.

When Elena woke the following day, it was well past morning. It was high noon and she felt miserable, empty.

"Don't move me," she whispered to Bonnie.

Bonnie nodded obediently and placed Elena's tray of untouched food off of her lap and onto her dresser. She brought a damp cloth onto Elena's forehead. Her fingers then slowly massaged Elena's temples.

"It's no good," Bonnie murmured. "You're already sick, Your Majesty. You know you shouldn't."

"Don't you think I know that," Elena said lightly, defeated. "But in that moment? It works beautifully. I don't care at all."

"Your Highness should be home next week," Bonnie changed the subject.

Elena opened her eyes slightly. She hadn't anticipated Prince Matthew to be home for at least another month.

"When next week," she asked, trying to sound casual.

"Towards the end of it," Bonnie placed a comforting hand on Elena's shoulder. She winced.

_Tender flesh._

Elena shut her eyes and sighed lightly.

"Leave me," she said calmly. "I need my solitude right now."

Bonnie put the cloth back in its dish. She bowed and along with Victoria, dismissed herself from the room.

Now that she was alone, she let her mind travel backwards to yesterday—to yesterday afternoon and that surreal moment in the Drawing Room with the Count. He had bare witness to her opium haze and it shamed her. His fingers had pressed into her shoulders severely, branding her skin.

He had kissed her. He had pressed his lips to hers and claimed her mouth as if it had always belonged to him. It was audacious, she thought. It was unforgivable. It was…

Elena's fingers pressed against her mouth.

"Damon," she whispered.

* * *

It would take her several hours before she could muster up enough energy to remove herself from her proverbial prison. She tried to dress herself but found that she couldn't. She was too tired, too weak. And so her ladies were called back into the room. She was sitting on the floor, crying.

Victoria swooped down and comforted her. She soothed her with soft words and reassuring pats along her back. She coaxed Elena off of the floor while Bonnie grabbed Elena's wardrobe.

"Vicki," Elena asked later, "How is Caroline?"

Vicki paused from lacing Elena's corset, meeting her gaze in the ornate mirror in front of them.

"Not well. They say she—suffered from a great amount of blood loss. It's strange, the entire thing. No one knows how she got in or out of the cage. Or what she was even doing there. It's very queer that the lion didn't shred her to pieces. She was fortunate."

"Fortunate?"

"To be alive."

"She's unwell, you said. I don't know how fortunate that is."

"I've been praying…" Vicki confessed.

There was a long beat of silence.

"Finish lacing me."

Soon, they slid on her lavender satin afternoon gown. It was richly patterned with a spray of roses. The front panels of her bodice were a dark violet. Her neckline dipped generously, the swell of her breasts visible. Her sleeves were ruched and full. It hugged Elena's hips excellently before splaying out in a train behind her. A fleur de lis tiara was settled into her curled and pinned hair. Normally, purple flattered her dark locks and eyes. Though today, it accentuated her paleness and highlighted her frailty. She had not eaten and had no desire to do so. The thought actually sickened her.

Today, she was making an appearance to the Capital Opera & Drama Company. They had requested the appearance of the Prince and Princess every year since they had wed in 1892. Elena had finally committed several months prior and under pressure, to visit and view the opera. Though it was cloudy, Elena had a parasol positioned over her head as she walked into the Royal Carriage. She sat quietly, longing for this to be over quickly. She was aware, although, that it would be an event lasting several hours.

Despite her morose disposition, Elena had to marvel at the beauty of the opera house. It was an impressive two tier brick building. Inside, on each side of the building were private opera boxes draped in velvet curtains and adorned in gilded railing. Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, glittering like diamonds. It was impressive. Elena was ushered into her box and settled in a fantastically adorned seat brought from the Royal Palace. Succulent L'Ortolan from France was served amongst French truffles, Russian caviar, fruits and wine. Elena sampled very little food, staring off into the distance while taking thoughtful sips of her drink. Soon she felt quite warm and allowed herself to relax slightly. She lifted the Opera program into her hands.

_Aida by Giuseppe Verdi._

The lights dimmed and Elena turned as the curtains opened to Act I.

_Wait._

Elena looked about the room. Something had caught her eye, didn't it? She lifted her head slightly, more alert. Where was she looking? What had she seen?

She felt him before she saw him. She felt his stare—searing, scandalous. Damon. He was seated in his box across the auditorium. He was lounging casually, as if it were appropriate to do so. When Elena finally met his eyes, a small smirk crossed Damon's lips. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned towards the stage. Elena did the same.

They watched as the opera began. The protagonist, Rhadames, sung as pined for Aida, the slave girl/Princess of Ethiopia. Aida sung as she crossed the stage, singing of her love for Rhadames and her loyalty to her people. The two lovers harmonized and embraced passionately.

Elena's eyes drifted back to Damon. His eyes. It was as if he didn't care if anyone was watching. And truthfully, he didn't. Damon watched her—very much the caged bird. Throughout the opera, her gazes towards him became more frequent. He watched her twist uncomfortably in her chair and it amused him greatly. Her body was humming and she fought to keep him out of her mind-to keep their kiss out of her mind.

"Ahime!...morir mi sento!" _Alas... I feel death_

Elena was fixated on the opus. It was at its climax and Rhadames had been sentenced to be buried alive after being accused of being a traitor. But there! Inside of his tomb was Aida. She came to die with him. Elena sighed. Love like that—only in plays, she though sarcastically. She watched as they embraced, her own chest rising and falling with stirred emotion. And as the curtain began to close, Rhadames exclaimed:

"Morir! Si pura e bella." _To die! So pure and lovely._

"Morir. Si pura e bella," Elena whispered to herself.

She cast her eyes towards Damon, watching him deliberately mouth the words to her. The applause was thunderous. Elena turned towards the stage, suddenly aware that eyes were probably on her. She nodded appropriately and began clapping with approval. It would please the company. The opera entertained her far more than she thought it would. She had intended to drink and drift off in thought. And instead, it made her think. As she turned back to Damon's box, she saw that he was already gone.

_Morir. Si pura e bella._


	6. Drowning

The ride back to Vrana was an adventure. Night had fallen and with the darkness also came heavy rain. And perhaps it mirrored the storm clouds in Elena's mind. Damon. He was muddling her mind more than wine ever could.

_Morir! Si pura e bella._

His eyes had a dark fire when he mouthed those words at her. What did he mean? And where did he go? How did he always manage to disappear when she least expected it? Her carriage rocked forcefully against the wind. It made her more anxious than she already was. She was playing a perilous game. Whispers were sedate right now. But she knew how quickly rumors could spread. And if Matthew caught wind…

Elena sighed. Caught wind of what? She was doing nothing. The Count took advantage of her in a vulnerable moment, she lied to herself. There was no audience. No one knew. She wasn't even sure how he came to be in the Palace that night. He had said he came as soon as he could. But why? But then she remembered—she had sent for him. In her opium cloud, she called for him. Foolish, foolish. She listened to the sound of her stallion's hooves as they pranced onto the soft earth. She needed to get out of this carriage. Her body was on fire. She needed to remove Damon from her head. She needed everything removed from her head. Matthew! Matthew would be home soon. Lord, help her when he did.

_Let me out!_

Just then, the carriage came to a halt in front of Vrana. Elena thanked her stars. And as soon she was inside of the door of the palace, she waved her ladies, her chaperones and her guards away. She just wanted to be alone. She glided up the stairs quickly, loosening ribbons, buttons and hooks on her dress. She suddenly hated being a woman and everything it entailed. Dresses, hair accessories—they were all for dolls. She was just a doll, a play thing for Bulgaria. As she walked into her room, she kicked off her shoes. She ripped at her dress and pulled the tiara from her hair. She motioned to throw it and paused in mid air. No. That would be unwise. She moved slowly and gingerly placed it atop her bed. She stared at it dejectedly, thinking about her crown represented.

Thunder clapped loudly and lightning crackled, illuminating her room slightly. Elena turned as she pulled out her hairpins, standing only in a wide necked chemise that reached her thighs. Lightning flickered again. She realized she was shaking. Her eyes look intently at her thick curtains. She took a step towards it, thunder rumbling violently. She stopped, listening to herself breathe unevenly. _Open it. Open it. Open it._ She moved forward, feeling as if she were floating in a dream. _Open it._ Lightning flashed again and again in a bright succession. Her hand slid up slowly, gathering the velvety cord in her small hand. And as thunder begin to clap again, Elena pulled open the curtain. Her windows were wide, exposed to the view of any person who should pass.

She stood in the center, rain hitting glass in front of her with the force of tiny pellets. Lightning lit up the sky suddenly. And for a vivid, brilliant moment, it was day. She could see the Parma Violets, the Bulgarian Roses, the Chrysanthemums…

When she thought on it later, she couldn't explain why she felt it. But her heart caught in her throat as she stared down her garden fields. It clung to her and slid through her veins like lava. She shook almost violently and her hand slid up clutching her chest.

And she ran.

She was barefoot, nearly naked, and she ran. She bounded along the carpeted hallway of the palace, breathing erratically. She wanted to scream. She leaped down the stairwell, two at a time with the grace of a lynx. She tore through the dark, dormant kitchen. Elena had never even been in there before. But an exit—there had to be one! She opened a door to a vast pantry and shut it just as quickly. Lightning flashed through the small windows and Elena caught sight of an entry way at the end of the room. She sprinted and burst through it and into the shadow of the night.

The rain was as cold as ice. It struck her with ferocity, drenching her, drowning her. She skidded into her garden. Her feet ran through slippery moss and crushed into flowers. She was gasping, struggling to breathe, as water bounced up her nostrils and sucked into her mouth. Her hair was slick against her head, soaking up the water like a sponge. She drew close to her destination, never slowing. Her chemise clung to her like wet paper, pressed intimately against her chest and back.

She never could explain how she knew…

He was a pale figure in a vast array of darkness. He was standing under a tree, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He stood, drenched, in his white collared shirt and dark slacks. He couldn't meet her. No. He watched her since before she even came into view at her window. But this was her journey. She had to come to him. And she looked much like an apparition as she flew through the garden, slipping past grass and flower.

There was no time for thought. Elena crashed into Damon's arms as if he were her magnet. Her mouth tipped upward and _she_ kissed him. His arms went around her, clutching her to him. It was urgent, passionate, terrifying. His swirling darkness enveloped her and took way. Her tongue was warm and it moved with his as her hands slid up to his neck. Her nails pressed hard into his skin and she heard herself moan. She was shaking like a leaf in a harsh breeze. She had never enjoyed sex—from the moment she lost her virginity to the last time she shared her bed. She had hated it. But this was something on an entirely different plane. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her entire life. She wanted to clutch him, to envelop him inside of her. She tore at his shirt in vain, attempting to pull it off. Damon's hands slid to her hips and took the sight of her in. She was a tiny slip of a thing. Frail. But her eyes were more alive in this moment than he had ever seen. His body stirred for her as she stood there in virtually nothing. The rain had turned Elena's chemise into a thin, translucent barrier. His palm slid over her breast, his thumb running across her nipple as it strained against the soaked material. In a fluid moment, his shirt was open and Elena's hands pressed against his skin. His muscles were tantamount to a Roman statue. He was cool, firm. Her eyes burned and she shut them, and leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his chest. She suctioned against him with open mouthed kisses, alternating the feel of skin with sips of rainwater. Drowning, drowning.

Damon turned his face into his shoulder, trying to control his zeal. He felt his fangs unsheathe as they often did in moments like these. The muscles on his face became taut. And he could feel the strain of his veins as they became swollen against his skin. He clutched Elena, feeling her teeth nipping at his flesh with enthusiasm. He couldn't say why he suddenly wanted to shield his face. He wasn't ashamed of who he had become. But there was a sharp emotion he felt in regards to Elena getting involved in his darkness. Yet when he heard her sharp intake of breath, he knew it was far too late to turn back.

Her hands froze suddenly, heavy anchors at Damon's waist. She knew her eyes were burning from the rain. She knew she was shaking from the rain. But there was no obstructing, no denying what was standing in front of her. Damon became still, very still, as he started down at her. His chin lifted slightly, almost proudly. Lightning flashed and his features were highlighted in all their glory. His eyes were blood shot. His skin was paler than ever against the dark veins that crisscrossed his face. And his teeth were sharper than an animal and more efficient. Fear radiated through her. It slid across her skin and wrapped around her spine with a vengeance. Elena's emotions were wild. And yet, something greater took precedence. It was greater than fear, greater than caution. It was need. The need of craving something of her very own emitted strongly through Elena. She had wished for much in her life, but never had she had something so close in her grasp. And so she willingly blurred her eyes at what she saw. Maybe it was nothing, maybe he was a demon, maybe he was a monster, and maybe he was the Devil himself. Elena didn't care. She grabbed his face so quickly that it stunned them both. She wanted to cry with all of the alternating emotions that were shooting through her. She pressed her mouth to his again and she felt him melt under her touch. She slid her hand downward passed his waistband and into his trousers. There. She found him hard, unbelievably hard for her. This couldn't be a demon, this was purely male. She felt her insides heat with want, with need.

The rain had dissolved into a light mist and he could hear her panting in between desperate kisses. He backed her against the tree, the same tree that they had rested under days before. His hand skimmed up between her thighs and under her chemise. Her body was responsive and he found her slick, ready.

It was foreign. Elena was nearly incoherent with gratification but this was foreign. She wanted his hands, his mouth, his hardness. And as his fingers slid over her clit with the skill of an artist, she was lost. She clung to this man, this beast. His fingers moving fluidly, amazingly, driving her to insanity. She had never felt this before. No man had ever done this for her. Her other hand was still in his trousers. She held his cock firmly, sliding her grip towards him and away. She felt him tense just so that it affirmed that she was pleasing him. He growled low in his throat. It was feral, it was arousing. He lifted her, her back pressing into the wet bark of the tree. Her legs surrounded him and she pressed into him encouragingly. Damon hadn't needed much encouragement. He lowered the front of his pants, holding his thick arousal in his hand. Elena was staring at him intensely, her lips parted, her fingers curling in his hair. In one firm motion, he positioned himself at Elena's entrance and thrust with his hips and was inside of her.

Elena screamed acutely and so he covered her mouth with his hand. He moaned low, ragged. His other hand was underneath her, anchoring her in place. He withdrew and sunk himself in her again. Elena pushed her head back against the tree and her eyes screwed shut. _Again._ Damon removed his hand from her mouth, bracing it against the bark. He pulled himself back, feeling her body clasp him as if he belonged within her. He pressed his lips to hers as he plunged into her again. _Harder._ He repeated the motion, this time with instinctual roughness. He smothered Elena's cry of satisfaction with his kiss. _Deeper._ He then removed himself completely from her, sliding his hardness against her, teasing her. Elena pressed her pelvis forward.

"Please," she trembled.

And so he pushed his himself forward. He pressed far back inside of Elena, grounding her against the tree again and again_._ His lips captured hers and he felt his teeth drag along her tongue. He wanted to sink his fangs deep. He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, his pace began to quicken. Both of his hands cupped her backside, pulling her towards and away from him. Elena wrapped her arms around Damon's neck. The bark at her back, although slick from the rain, began to dig into her skin. She begged him softly for something she had no concept of. She needed a resolution. This was her symphony and she needed her crescendo. She felt a ball of warmth settle in between her legs as Damon drove himself inside of her. _Harder. Faster. Deeper. _That ball of warmth began to increase into a white pulsating sphere of energy. And never in her life had Elena wanted anything more than whatever this feeling had to offer.

Damon knew that she was close. He could feel it. Her thighs were shaking. Her breaths had become more ragged. Her grip around his neck would have choked a mortal man. Her body clenched him inside of her so tight, so warm. He slid his hand down in between them and rocked his finger back and forth over her clit. That in culmination with his cock inside of her sent Elena over the edge. She came hard, fast. It was blind ecstasy. Her nails viciously dug into Damon's back. He felt his body tense and he consciously tightened his jaw shut. He came as she was moaning his name into his ear over and over. It was an incomprehensible surge of rapture. And it flooded his veins so sharply, that it nearly brought him to his knees.

And there, unbeknownst to Damon and Elena, was a long figure in the distance. A silhouette stood in Elena's room, attentively watching and taking in all that could be seen.


	7. Spare

She couldn't sleep. How could she sleep? There was no possible way.

Elena paced the floor of her bedchamber. Her hair, still wet, was pinned up and off of her neck. She had slid into a silk robe but absently left it untied and so it billowed behind her like smoke. Oh, what she wouldn't give for opium right now! Would it be untoward to call Doctor Gilbert at this hour? Elena swore and nibbled at her finger nails.

She had been seduced! In the most scandalous way, she had consciously allowed the vows of her marriage to be irrevocably broken.

Elena shut her eyes and let her mind travel backwards. She could still feel his hands on her body. She sighed deeply as she felt herself shudder with the memory.

It could never happen again.

Oh, but he had secured an invitation to the royal ball next week. His words had been silk. His mouth had been hot and hovering over hers. His wandering fingers had slid in between her legs as he inquired about the upcoming festivities.

_"Am I invited," he asked softly, his lips gliding over hers._

_"No," Elena breathed. "It wouldn't be decent."_

_"Am I invited," he asked again, his words like thick honey._

_His fingers had slid inside of her slow, deep._

_"Yes!"_

She thought about revoking the invitation but she couldn't bring herself to face him. She didn't want to face him or face anything, for that matter. She just wanted to block it all out.

She suddenly lifted her head, her attention on her large chestnut dresser. She rushed towards it, opening the bottom drawer and falling to her knees. She pushed aside several articles of clothing until she came upon a small box. She pulled the box into her lap and opened it. It was deep and lined in purple velvet. There, settled in the center, was a small leather bag. Elena scooped it up into her hand and took a cautionary look behind her. She opened the bag and a sweet, earthy aroma filled her senses. It was opium pods—crushed, dried and waiting to be brewed into a tea for her. She let out a soft, relieved sigh. She had almost forgotten that Sir John had left it in case she was in a pinch. This would do. This would more than do.

And not long after a clumsy attempt to brew, Elena finally had her large tea cup in hand as she settled onto her bed. It was bitter, even with honey and lemon. It was a bitterness that Elena welcomed with open arms. She thought about Damon then, and wondered if what she had seen was real. His features had looked quite contorted. A beast. But no…he was a man…he was…

Elena blinked slowly. A small, satisfied sigh slid from her lips and poured into the air. The cup, now empty, had slid from her grasp and onto the bed. Elena fell back and it seemed so slow, so taxing, to do so. She closed her eyes. She felt beyond lethargic, but her mind was decently clear. She wanted to keep her eyes closed forever. How wonderful it was to numb into a pit of nothing. Her eyes were slits and her vision became obscured. The objects in her room became shadows and she felt alone—blissfully alone. After a while, she couldn't think of much of anything any longer. The Princess of Opium crawled farther into the cave of darkness and quiet. And she was pleased.

* * *

His eyes were gleaming like a cat. He could hear her heartbeat, laborious.

Caroline Forbes lay on a bed of clean linens. Her skin looked sallow even in the firelight. She was breathing loudly, struggling with every rise and fall of her chest. Her neck was heavily bandaged with gauze. To anyone who had seen her, they all thought the same: Death would be mercy.

Damon hovered over Caroline. He was in fresh clothes but his skin was still moist from the rain. He thought about finishing the job that he had started. How easy it would be.

"Caroline," he called softly.

He watched as her brow furrowed and her eyes moved behind her closed lids.

"Caroline," he called again.

With much effort, Caroline's eyes opened into small slits. He watched as her eyes, with slow recognition, widened. Her jaw tightened and a weak cry emitted from her closed mouth.

"I'm not here to kill you," he said casually.

Her breathing was heavier, coming in short difficult bursts.

"So calm your frayed little nerves," he continued, "before you kill yourself."

Her entire body was tense and he noticed that she was trying, with heavy effort, to breathe evenly.

"Good girl," he purred.

He leaned over her, his fingers gliding over her silky golden locks, and watched her wince.

"Now," he said, "Let this be a lesson to you, Miss Forbes. Never invite yourself into the carriage of a strange man."

His fingers slid to her neck, slowly removing the gauze.

"Because you never know," his eyes fixated on her wound, "What might be waiting in the dark to bite you."

He brought his wrist to his mouth. He watched her eyes widen with horror, with fear, as he bit through his skin and vein. He grabbed her by her chin and against her feeble cry of protest, shoved her mouth to his gash.

"C'mon, shhh," he commanded, bored. "Drink."

He watched her with keen eyes. He could feel her fear and it was enjoyable.

Her protest evolved slowly. Her hands that had once tried to push him were now pulling him to her lips. Her mouth had suctioned against his skin, her grip tightening. Damon pulled his arm away from her after a long moment and pushed her back into bed with ease.

"That's enough," he said calmly.

He turned his head, his eye on her abrasion. His eyes were keen and he could see her nerves were tingling and ready to begin their repair.

"Good as new," he sighed.

"What…" Caroline said at last. "What happened? What are you?"

Damon braced his arms on either side of Caroline. His eyes were dark mesmerizing orbs that dilated as he spoke.

"You went to the zoo. You had too much wine. And you wanted to pet the big pussy cat…"

"Too much wine," she repeated, parrot-like.

"Atta girl," Damon patted her head. "Now, you're going to close your eyes and sleep until morning."

Caroline's eyes fluttered closed and a small sigh escaped her lips. Damon put her gauze back over her cut.

He spared her. It disgusted him.

* * *

Sir Jonathan Gilbert was a man of high esteem. A knight and scientist from Britain, he was a man that was highly honored when he had first come to Bulgaria. With his startling blue eyes, flaxen hair and ruddy complexion, he was a favorite amongst the women of court.

Though no one knew of him or was quite sure of business that brought him to Sofia, he integrated himself rather smoothly into society. And five years after entering Bulgaria, he had become a close friend of Prince Matthew and Lord Lockwood. He was a brilliant man who had received an Oxford education in botany, chemistry and physics. He also was also a proud owner of an apothecary in the center of town. From the moment that Elena had laid eyes on him, she knew there was more to his mild manners. It didn't take long for him to discuss with her, at length, the guile of the poppy flower.

He was her willing raft when she stood in stormy waters and he knew it. He preyed upon it. Isolating a beautiful woman was his modus operandi. Though, he admitted, his royal conquest was by far his greatest achievement. It was also his most dangerous success. If His Highness caught wind of his tawdry activities, he risked exile or perhaps death. Power was an intoxicating elixir—far more than any other natural stimulant. Though, John felt that he had an advantage in the situation. He had watched the eyes of Prince Matthew when they were together. He saw how his eyes would follow him across the room. It was a triumph to have both the Prince and Princess weak to him in some respect. And it was personal information that he used to his gain.

Elena remembered the first time he had brought opium to her. She recalled it fondly as if she were reminiscing on the birth of one of her children. He had invited her to his apothecary under the guise of bestowing rare herbs to her. His words were sugar and his eyes, had she noticed, were like a snake. Soon, he had her alone, reclined in a dimly lit room. Elena had never seen a hookah before and the contraption piqued Elena's curiosity from the start. Her hands slid across the cool base and along the ridged curved pipes. It seemed so exotic. He had placed a dark opium pill onto the head of the hookah and applied a smoldering cake of coal atop it. They watched together as it bubbled and he perversely guided the spout in between Elena's lips. For a brief moment, there was panic. She was alone in this room with her ladies waiting in the street. She watched as his eyes had settled onto her mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing. Before she could think long, that feeling dissipated. It was like opening the gates of nothing. It poured through and flooded over Elena, taking her into the depths of a nonentity. She felt like a thick anchor at the bottom of the sea. Her eyes shut heavily and she could smell the sweet smoky scent of opium as it clung to the air. She felt her settee shift with weight and she knew that it was John. She was weightless, floating through a blind ocean. She felt his roving hands and she was too helpless, too numb to protest. His hands roamed over her satin dress for a long moment. They slid across her heavily covered thighs and over the cleft between her legs, testing his liberties. He took no more advances upon her that day and left her to dance with the dragons as she sat nearly catatonic in the dim room. From that moment—that instant the smoke had skipped into her lungs, she was in love with it.

She had offered Sir John a handsome payment on numerous occasions but he would have none of it. He'd raise his hands, a queer smile on his face as he declined. It was the power, you see. He didn't want to give her the name of his supplier simply because he wanted her to come back to him. She always came back to him. Elena deliberately refused to waste a second of thought towards what John did that day. Or what John would do in subsequent days. She always kept her eyes shut and her mind a blank slate at those times. Nothing existed. Not even when she felt her skirts raised and his body invade hers, did she allow herself to consider what was being done. There was only opium, nothing more. Even when she felt John's hot breath at her neck and heard him moan with pleasure, she still refused to see reality. That was Elena's reasoning. Though, when Eudoxia was born, she thanked God that John and Matthew looked alike enough to not raise suspicion. She told herself it was Matthew's child and that was all that mattered. And in her own mind, she hadn't been unfaithful. She had never made a conscious decision to betray Matthew. Whatever happened with John wasn't real. Her eyes were closed, her mind was gone. Nothing was happening. And for a year and a half, nothing happened often with John. And now with spring beginning, she knew that poppy flowers would be in full bloom. She knew that she would feel both wonderful and awful again. In fact, John had come to her soon after Caroline had been injured. He remarked on her pain and offered to help. Unfortunately for him, Bonnie stayed by Elena's side the entire time he was at Vrana. And he knew Elena could see the frustration in his gaze. Even still, he left her opium, his eyes telling her that he would be back soon. It was a silent promise that they both knew he would keep.

Sunday afternoon found Sir John at Aleksandra's Sporting House in Slaveykov Square. Men flocked to the house to gamble, chat or drift upstairs to take advantage of the on-sight brothel. It was widely known as a less than savory establishment, but upper crust society (mainly the men) turned a blind eye.

John lounged on a plush settee. He was poshly dressed in a dark coat and waistcoat. A dark red ascot went snugly across his midsection. His legs were crossed and he held a Cuban cigar loosely between his fingers. A galleried monocle sat snugly in his eye socket as he read through his newspaper with interest. As he turned the page, he became startled, seeing Damon sitting across from him in a chair that empty moments before.

"Good Lord," he swore.

Damon smirked and nodded his head in faux polite acknowledgement.

"My brother always told me I move with the stealth of a cat," Damon remarked, almost apologetic.

John smiled with fakery and turned back to his paper.

"Do I know you from somewhere," Damon interrupted.

"I don't think so," John said absently, his eyes on his paper.

"No," Damon mused, "I know you."

John sunk slightly in his chair, saying nothing.

"You're Sir John Gilbert of London, are you not? The scientist?"

John nodded stiffly and avoided eye contact.

"Sir," Damon said sweetly, "I have to commend you on your breakthrough work with ether. As a man of combat…I owe you my gratitude."

John's eyes went to Damon's suddenly.

"You…know of my work?"

"Of course! Granted, I am a novice in science but you are my inspiration."

"Really," John asked, warming up.

"Truly! I've considered a career in chemistry because of you. The creation of chloroform has been revolutionary. It's a godsend to the medical profession."

"Well thank you, my good man. I stay pressed to keep my identity quiet, you see. The fame," he laughed nervously.

"Of course," Damon lowered his voice. "Answer me this, how fares your recent work on the _Papaver somniferum?"_

"Papaver…" John trailed off, his expression darkening. "You must be mistaken."

"No," Damon's face was a stone. "I'm never mistaken."

John removed the monocle from his eye and began to clean it with a small cloth that he procured from his breast pocket. He was silent for a long moment, waging a war in his mind.

"We have a mutual friend," Damon said at last.

"Whom, may I ask?"

"It's none of your concern."

Damon stood suddenly, standing over John in a foreboding manner. John kept his head bowed and Damon could taste his fear.

"I am affording you a greater courtesy than what you are worth. I'm watching you, Johnny. Remember that. Next time we meet under these circumstances, I won't be so kind."

John stared at Damon's shoes, giving a barely perceptible nod. When Damon walked away, John expelled a great deal of air from his lungs. As his fear began to dissipate, anger took its place. Intense anger.


	8. Preparations

It was Wednesday and Elena's children were home in preparation for their father's homecoming. Prince Matthew III was four years old, Prince Kyril was three and Princess Eudoxia was nearly four months old.

Elena sat in quietly in a rocking chair, Xia held awkwardly in her arms. She was a beautiful little cherub—chubby chicks, creamy skin and eyes blue like a dark sea. Her eyes were attentive and she squirmed to and fro. Elena thought of Sir John for a moment, and her already low spirits dipped lower. She grabbed Xia's chin and stared down at her. She felt no bond with her daughter and it grieved her. It was like a stranger's child. She lifted Xia; her hands hooked underneath the armpits and extended her towards Victoria like a sack of potatoes.

"Vicki, here," she said, "take her."

Victoria shared a knowing glance with Bonnie before rushing to take Xia from Elena. She cooed at the child and lovingly ran her fingers across the baby's face. Elena felt a sharp pang of jealousy before turning towards her two sons. Matty was the splitting image of his father just as Kyril looked much like her. She felt a twinge of maternal instinct towards her boys. Kyril was a precocious boy. His hair was brown like hers and his eyes were dark, curious. His lips were nearly always curled into a smile. He was a happy boy. Matthew was much of the same with his fair hair and smiling eyes. They were happy children. They were happy without her. She saw how they took to their nanny, Anna. They loved her. Anna was their replacement mother, Elena thought. And she knew it was better this way. Anna was sweet, bright eyed and patient with the children. She'd laugh and play and cuddle them as if they were her own. In short, she did everything that Elena couldn't bring herself to do. She halfheartedly called to Matthew but he preoccupied with a puzzle that Anna had given him.

Elena sighed and turned towards Lord Lockwood who was standing nearby with a quill and parchment. He, at the behest of her husband, was to assist her in coordinating the homecoming ball. It had been decided that it would be a masquerade ball themed to Shakespeare's A Midsummer Nights Dream.

"Lutes," Elena said, distracted.

"Lutes," Lockwood repeated dryly, scribbling on his parchment.

"And lots of…pastel fabrics. I want it to look whimsical," Elena murmured, slicing her fingers through the air. She suddenly snapped her fingers to get the attention of her maid. A frothy mimosa was brought over quickly on a silver platter. She took the glass and took a thoughtful sip.

"I want an abundance of flowers. Matthew is fond of orange hued roses."

"Yellow," Lockwood interrupted. "He is fond of yellow roses."

"Tyler," Vicki gasped from behind him.

Elena raised her eyes to Lockwood, her jaw tightening, and her eyes suddenly very hard.

"Do you presume to know my His Highness better that I? His wife?"

Lockwood bowed low but she could see the mocking gaze in his eyes.

"No, Your Majesty. I would never. Please accept my most humble apologies for my disruption. "

"Dismiss yourself," she said roughly. "I want the ballroom done to my exact specifications—include a surplus of _orange roses_."

She turned her attention to her ladies.

"What is on my calendar for today?"

"You have a fitting at 3:00, madam," Vicki stated. "Dinner at 7:00."

"What time is it now?"

"Noon, Your Majesty."

"I need to visit with Sir John as soon as possible."

Vicki and Bonnie looked at one another.

"Don't look at each other," Elena snapped. "Do as I say. And call Anna to collect the children. Tell her to have them dressed for dinner by 6:30 tonight."

They bowed obediently. Vicki put Xia in Elena's arms and left to commission the royal carriage. Elena stared at her child and held her securely in her arms. She took a deep drink of her mimosa and sighed audibly.

* * *

Elena strode into Sir John's apothecary a short time later. She was dressed in a jade green gown with pearl beading across the chest. The neckline was modest, though form fitting. She closed her parasol and cleared her throat to get John's attention.

Sir John stood bent over his counter, carefully separating herbs into glass vials. He looked up and stared at Elena.

"Sir John," Elena called out in greeting as she smiled warmly.

John's face hardened swiftly and he looked behind her.

"They're waiting outside," she said, referring to her guards and ladies.

John walked towards her quickly and locked the door behind her. He grabbed her arm roughly and led her into the back room.

"John," she gasped, alarmed.

He released his grip and shut the door of his backroom. The lock slammed hard into place. He turned towards Elena.

"Who have you been chattering to about me?"

"What?"

His hand came so swift and suddenly that Elena didn't even have a chance to react. His hand crashed across her face with a vengeance and she was on the floor before she even had a chance to blink. A cry escaped Elena's mouth and she stared up at John, clutching her cheek.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, shaking.

"A man came to see me Sunday afternoon. He made references to my opium, Elena. MY OPIUM! Out in public! Do you know what would happen if His Highness caught wind? It's banned from Bulgaria, for Christ's sake! My clientele is small and trustworthy. The only person that I could deduce that would commit the folly of referencing my name is you. You're unstable and impulsive, Elena. Do you even know who is he?"

Tears began to form into Elena's eyes. Anger from John was heartbreaking and nerve shattering.

"I didn't tell anyone, John. I promise."

"Dark hair—startling blue eyes. My contacts have seen such a man at Vrana. Are you going to deny it?"

Elena's hand slipped down her face and fell into her lap.

"I didn't tell him, Sir John," she whispered.

"You're finished. No more. You've proven that you can't be trusted."

John stared down at Elena's distraught expression. It excited him. He deliberately turned from her. She pitched forward, clinging to his legs and began to cry.

"John! No! Please! It was a mistake! Please! I don't even…I don't remember! You have to believe me. He's Count de la Salvatore from the House of Savoy. He had to have someone watching…! I'll get rid of him, Sir John. Please! I beg of you!"

She twisted his slacks into her fists, her face pressed into the back of his thighs. She knew she looked like a fool. A Princess on her knees begging to a man that was beneath her. She didn't care! Titles were nothing. She was nothing. She was nothing if she couldn't have opium steadily in her life. It was her life.

"John," she whispered, pleading.

She listened to his harsh breathing, hoping he'd take pity on her. John turned abruptly. He crouched down and grabbed Elena by her shoulders. He pulled her up and tossed her on the settee.

"You want your opium, woman?"

Elena said nothing, wiping the tears off of her face. She suddenly very shamed.

John thrust the hookah into Elena's lap and grabbed the mouth of the nozzle. He grabbed Elena by her chin and pressed it through her lips. His body leaned into the hookah, shoving it against her breasts.

"There, love," he said mockingly. "There is your gold."

For a moment, Elena felt utterly raged. Who was he to talk to her in this fashion? He was no one! But the temptation to inhale was too great. They both knew this. Their eyes connected a silent duel. She knew that she was going to lose. She breathed deep, hard. Smoke curled down her throat and burned its way down. Tears slid a river down her face. She began to cough. John held her face, keeping the spout between her lips. His eyes were hard and cruel. He pinched her nose as he gripped her chin. He watched her eyes enlarge and become frantic. She was choking. She tried to twist her head away but his grip was strong. Her fingers tried in vain to pry his hands loose.

"Go to sleep, Princess," he whispered salaciously into her ear.

And she did just that.

Her body was heavy lead weights. Her limbs were immobile. A searing warmth bloomed against her breast but she couldn't arouse the energy to move. Perhaps she _was_ moving. Perhaps, she was in a boat that was floundering during a stormy sea. The wind moaned and her head, tossed by the ocean, hit the wall in cadence. 1, 2, 3. Her entire body was in motion, the tempo increasing. The howling of the wind was ragged, lustful. Her name was whispers on the breeze, insults in the air. She felt wetness on her mouth as she was pulled under into the deep depths of the unexplainable.

But Elena wasn't in a boat at all. She was a Princess laid upon a dingy couch in a dark room. She was a slave to her opium appetite. And so she lay like a near comatose woman, her eyes blank, as John invaded her body with his. Her spirit cracked a bit more.

* * *

"Hold her steady," Bonnie whispered, giving a wary sidelong glance to the dressmaker.

"I am steady," Elena blinked, swaying slightly as she stood on an elevated platform.

Vicki gripped Elena by her arm right arm and anchored her in place. The dress maker measured Elena and took down the appropriate notes. He had two more days to finish her dress. It was obvious to him that he would forgo sleep in order to have her outfit ready in time.

Elena coughed harshly. Her throat was unbearably raw from the hookah. She was still drifting through the clouds, her mind quiet.

"I'm tired," she said slowly.

"We are almost done, Your Majesty," Bonnie murmured reassuringly.

She smoothed Elena's hair with her hands tenderly.

"Good…wonderful."

Elena stared at herself in the mirror.

"Aren't I a picture," she asked no one.

"A lovely vision," the dressmaker felt compelled to say.

Elena gave a half laugh. She twirled slowly for her audience atop the platform. Vicki held onto her arm the entire time, keeping her steady.

After a few more quick measurements and adjustments, Bonnie and Vicki wrapped Elena's shawl around her shoulders and ushered her out of the shop.

Damon stood in the street with his footman, Jeremy, as they discussed business arrangements. It was Jeremy who saw her first. He nodded his head, his eyes gesturing beyond Damon.

Damon turned and watched as the Princess of Bulgaria was kept steady as she walked outside of a dressmaker's shop. His eyes darkened instinctively as he took sight of her. She looked pale. Her eyes were glassy and her mouth was pulled into a silly grin. _He knew._

"She doesn't hide it well," Jeremy said quietly.

"I know."

"Why didn't you kill him?"

"I thought a threat would be enough."

"And now?"

"Clearly, I was mistaken."

Damon realized Elena was staring at him. She raised her hand slowly in greeting before she disappeared from view as the royal carriage pulled in front of her.

He turned to Jeremy, saying nothing.

"He owns that apothecary in the center of town," Jeremy said helpfully.

"Tonight," Damon quietly.

His tone was murderous.


	9. Dear John

That night, while Elena was sleeping through her opium dreams, Damon dressed quietly.

He stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his dark shirt slowly, methodically. He combed his hair back and away from his face. He reached into his jacket pocket and put on a pair of gloves that fit snugly over his fingers. His fury had lessened to quiet anger. If he had a clear head, perhaps he could have dissected his emotions as to why he was so upset. But his mind was not clear, instead clouded with his idea of a resolution.

"You're getting careless," Jeremy called out behind him.

His footman sat on a nearby bench, cleaning his nails with a knife.

"I know," Damon said dully, straightening his collar.

"Then withdraw this idea and plan accordingly."

"Plan? I don't have time for plans. She could be dead by then."

"Does that matter to you?"

Damon turned his face to Jeremy quickly, his eyes blazing. After a moment, his gaze became mild, and he said nothing.

"She's not Katherine," Jeremy said quietly.

Damon punched the mirror, the glass shattering into pieces onto the floor. Damon stared down at his clenched fist, bloody and torn. He watched as his skin began to repair itself.

"I know," Damon said shortly. He turned towards Jeremy, who was still seated and looking calm.

"You know why I'm telling you this, Damon. If anyone ever found out what we are…"

"She already knows."

Jeremy was on his feet in an instant and he looked alarmed for the first time.

"What? What are you talking about? When?"

"Days ago."

"Why in the hell didn't you say anything?"

"Because I knew this was how you would act," Damon said plainly.

"With reason. Christ! What did she say?"

"She didn't say anything. It was dark and she was half drunk."

"That doesn't make it right."

"I never said it did."

"If people find out about us-"

"They won't."

"You're putting us in danger."

"And I'll take care of it," Damon snapped.

He grabbed his coat and hat and walked out into the darkness of the night.

Sir John locked the front door of his apothecary and slid the keys into his jacket pocket. It had been a long day. He slid into his buggy and whipped his horse into a trot. The night was still and the sound of the horse's hooves on the cobblestone boomed through the quiet. Now that he was alone, he allowed himself to revisit the day's events with relish. He had been correct in assuming that the Princess was the gossiping hen that put Count de la Salvatore on his tail. Obviously, the Count had an interest in the Princess. There was something that struck him strange when he thought of Damon. What had Elena said? Oh yes, he was from the House of Savoy. His thoughts shifted towards Elena. His beautiful little Princess.

From the moment that Sir John had laid eyes on her, he knew she was fraught with vulnerability. Her husband's sexuality was put into question in loud whispers throughout the court. He knew that she was aware of it. He saw the desolate look in her eyes. He smelled her loneliness. It was almost too easy.

When he ran from London, Sir John was also running from the magistrate. Having committed a significant amount of high profile theft, it had finally caught up to him. But before the local police could bring him to justice, he fled. Bulgaria seemed a far enough place as any. It didn't take long before he had the trust and admiration from the great people of Sofia. The women of court flocked to him like bees to honey. And though he had several dalliances and had ruined the honor of several young women, he was not sated. It was too easy. As soon as he heard that the Princess was living in misery, he realized that he had acquired a just target. He had moved stealthily. He brought himself into the royal circle and had become a close confidant to Prince Matthew.

Much to the chagrin of Lord Lockwood, Prince Matthew warmed almost instantly to his new friend. Sir John was foreign and full of knowledge. Matthew never vocalized his admiration for John. He didn't have to. His eyes were full of want. Once during a drunken night, Sir John's lips had "accidentally" brushed against the Prince's neck to test his theories. It left Matthew visibly stupefied. Unfortunately, the Prince had left on diplomatic duties the next morning. But the seed had been planted. Sir John found that he was looking forward to the return of Matthew. He yearned to see how far he could take this. Having the Prince and Princess in his palm was a great power that he looked forward to holding. Power. That was his aphrodisiac. He found himself hard as he pulled his buggy into his estate: Lyon Grange.

Lyon Grange was a sprawling mansion on the outskirts of Sofia. Made of a heavy brick, its Beaux Arts style was almost garish. He situated his trousers as he stood and met his butler at the door. He was notified that the jewel he wanted was waiting in his bedroom just as he had asked. His jewel. Sir John smirked as he strode up the staircase and began to walk towards his bedroom. Pearl was a lovely harlot from Aleksandra's Sporting House that made came to his beck and call. Another favorite opium girl of his, Pearl was a beautiful transplant from the Orient. She held herself together better than his Princess and she willingly gave her body as payment. Though, perhaps that was why he found Elena more exciting. Elena was more of a risk—the threat of death loomed like an intoxicating perfume. At this moment, however, Pearl would more than do.

When he walked into his bedroom, he found it awash in candlelight. Pearl was laid upon his bed, nude, and waiting for him. She had fallen asleep on top of his covers, her head pressed back into the pillows.

"What a lovely gift to come home to," he purred, removing his shirt. He slid over her body and leaned in to kiss her neck but stopped short. Pearl's eyes were slits, the look of death permanently affixed in her dark eyes. The wound on her neck was gaping and her blood had poured into his sheets.

John gasped and moved off of the bed. He paced for a moment, swearing to himself, and inched his way back towards Pearl. He leaned in and stared at her wound, swearing again. Something was familiar…what was it?

"See anything you like," Damon asked quietly.

Sir John jumped a foot and clutched his hand over his heart. He stared at Damon, who sat calmly on a chair, and breathed loudly.

"She's dead?"

"Yes."

John closed his eyes and said a prayer to his self.

"Does it upset you," Damon asked.

A sudden key found the lock in John's mind. He felt his conviction harden and his face became bland as he came to a realization. He opened his eyes and stared coolly at Damon.

"Just a dead whore," he said quietly, "Nothing I'll lose sleep over."

Damon chuckled softly and stood. John inched towards his dresser as he kept his eyes on Damon.

"You're looking for this," Damon asked sweetly.

He held up a large rudimentary stake. Damon twirled it playfully in his hand.

John stood very still for a long moment. He looked behind him before he sank into a high back chair that was seated nearby. He rested his arms across his chest as he spoke.

"I'm a scientist," he said slowly.

Damon watched him, saying nothing.

"Chemistry. Physics. Botany. I acquired degrees in those three fields when I attended Oxford University. I had, however, attempted to receive a degree in the medical field as well," he sighed, his eyes taking in a far off gaze. "Biology had always interested me. The human body. What an absolute perfect work of art the human body is—the heart, the brain…everything. Of course, one of my first courses was Human Anatomy. _One must first respect the human body_." Sir John chuckled to himself before continuing. "This being London and all, we were often given cadavers of the homeless, the criminal and the prostitutes. These were the bodies that wouldn't be claimed, you see? And it gave us the opportunity to dissect, to explore, and to learn. It was a remarkable class." He paused, lost in thought, before shaking his head back to the present.

"Our professor was Doctor Wilhelm von Wade. He was an extraordinary teacher. Although I didn't receive my doctorate, I learned very much in a short amount of time." Sir John stood with his hands raised in a sign of peace before he scooped his jacket off of the floor. He shoved his hands into the pocket and took out a cigar and box of matches. He strode to his dresser and grabbed his cigar cutter, snipping the closed end. After lighting it and taking a puff, he sank back down into his seat.

"One night, and I will never forget it, a woman was brought in. A lady of the night, they told us. She…even in death she looked extraordinary. They had found her covered in blood on the side of the road at the East End of London. So the natural inclination was that the poor woman was a victim of Jack the Ripper. But after we shed her of her clothing, we found no sign of trauma. She was…perfect. She looked like a marble statue—the likeness of Venus herself. But Wilhelm," John raised and wagged his finger. "He wasn't so easily convinced that she was dead. Mary Shelley herself couldn't have written it any better. The horror," Sir John lapsed into silence and took a thoughtful puff of his cigar. He turned to Damon and stared at him.

"It was _their_ game, you see. Every now and again they'd grow bored. What easier way than to play dead and wait for the most perfect opportune moment? I can only assume that she wanted to wait until there was only one or so person in the room. It would have given her the greater advantage as opposed to ten on one. Doctor von Wade had brought over a beaker of water. Water? He was acting so strange, you see. I remember my brow furrowing as he threw the water at her. But my God, how she screamed. Holy water. She rose up like the devil; her beautiful ivory skin was singeing and curling as if her breasts had been pressed into a fire pit. She screamed with the fury of Satan and she leapt onto a colleague of mine. She thrust her wolf's mouth onto the poor lad's neck. The warm spray of his blood splashing against my face will haunt me until my end of days. She killed three men before we were able to subdue her—the seven of us. Doctor thrust a wooden stake into her chest with the force of heaven and earth. She stared at me as her skin grayed and she began her journey to hell. A vampire," Sir John said. "She was a vampire."

He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his bent knee.

"Princess Elena said you were from the House of Savoy. House of Savoy? There hasn't been a count in centuries, my good man. _I know what you are_."

"Then you also know that you won't live to see another sunrise," Damon said quietly, lethally.

"Yes. Is this because of _her_?" John's eyes sparkled wonderfully.

Damon's face was a stone.

"Do you think she'll be worth it? She's quite broken, you know…"

Damon clenched his fists.

"This is because you didn't take heed to my warning. There are consequences when I'm crossed."

"When crossed? What a God complex your kind has."

"And what kind of complex do you think you have, Johnny?"

John smirked, the cigar smoke curled out from between his lips into delicate swirls.

"I can smell her on you," Damon said darkly.

"I'm sure you can. You can smell her all over me," His tone was suggestive. "It's amazing what that girl will do for a little bit of opium."

John was goading him and they both knew it.

Damon walked over to John slowly, deliberately. John took a final puff of his cigar, his pupils dilating as Damon grew near. He pressed the cigar into the chair, burning the ember into ash. John stood weakly and took a deep breath.

"Will it be quick," he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

Damon's fans unsheathed slowly.

"No," Damon said kindly.

Sir John's blood sprayed into the damask wallpaper—tinges of red along the fleur de lis.


	10. Confession

When Elena awoke hours later, she knew that she had missed the first dinner with her children back home. She sighed heavily and raised her hand to cover her eyes. The room was dark; an oil lamp flickered dimly along a small table across the room. Her spirits were dipped a bit low as they often did after an opium binge. Everything just felt…off. Elena could now soberly address what had happened at the apothecary. She had never seen John so angry before. He was usually so understanding, so calm and collected. Her blood chilled as she thought of his hand crossing her face. He had hit her. He struck her. He didn't apologize or try and atone. Why?

It was because he felt that he was above her, she realized. And perhaps, in a way, he was. He had the power, didn't he? He could take away her life's happiness. He could take away that warm glow that she had grown so accustomed to feeling. In a basic way, she was unhappy that she had let her dependence grow into such an uncontrollable force. There was nothing that she could do to quell it now. It was an insatiable appetite that had to be fed. And it must be fed often. But…he had stuck her. That knowledge was like a pinprick in an untouchable place. It was bothersome but she could see no resolution. Her hand crossed her cheek softly. It wasn't tender and she hoped that she wouldn't bruise.

"What have I become," she thought.

She sighed again and covered her hands over her eyes once more. Her children. She was such a sore disappointment towards them. There was no denying it. Her only glimmer of luck was that they were still too small to understand what kind of a mother she was. They were too young to feel the sting of rejection. A terrible, terrible mother.

"You're covered in his scent," a voice called out from the dark. "Practically bathed in it."

Elena covered her mouth to suppress a scream for a quick moment. She threw her hands across her stomach, outraged, and breathed loudly.

"How did you get in my room," she whispered furiously.

"It was easier than you think."

Damon walked from the darkest side of the room into the firelight. He strode over towards the bed and towered over Elena.

She sat up obstinately and stared up at his shadowed figure.

"How dare you situate yourself into the royal bedchamber? This room is sacred and private! Get out."

"Covered in his scent," he repeated again.

"What are you babbling on about?"

"Sir John."

The silence was so thick that they could have sliced it with a knife. Guilt ebbed into her heart.

"Covered," she repeated breathlessly, "you're ridiculous. Sir John is a dear friend and I remind you to watch yourself before you insinuate anything otherwise to I, the Princess of Bulgara. You're ridiculous."

"Am I?"

"As if you have the nose of a hound."

"Not exactly."

"Get out!"

"I will. But not until I make something explicitly clear to you."

Elena pulled her comforter up across her breasts and tucked under her arms. She flicked her wrist in a careless gesture.

"Be done with it and leave."

"There will be no more John. No more visits to the apothecary. No more meets and exchanges of goods. It's done. It's over."

Elena was out of the bed like a rocket. She moved passed Damon and towards the opposite end of the room. She turned around to face him, unable to see his features, and pointed angrily. Her eyes were twin orbs of outrage, fire.

"You have no right to steal into my room. You have no right to impose any sort of law upon me, Damon. I can see whomever I choose. I can go wherever I please. I am royalty, for the love of God! Just…leave now. I can't do whatever this is. I never want to see you again. Ever."

She blinked rapidly and suddenly he was in front of her. Her gaze rolled up towards his face. She could see him now, illuminated in the glow of the oil lamp. His fingers slid slowly down the curve of her waist and she felt herself shiver. She realized then that she was very naked. His presense at such a close proximity was disconcerting.

"Never?" He asked quietly.

Elena turned her face and looked away. She stared at floor, the walls, anything.

"I can hear your heart beating," he whispered.

He had told her this once before.

_Beating fast like a little bird._

Elena looked up at him.

"What are you," she asked.

"You know what I am," he said calmly.

Elena took in the sight of him. She was suddenly aware that he was covered in blood. His mouth, his neck, his shirt—he was covered in it. She inhaled deeply, the unmistakable metallic scent filling her lungs.

"You're bleeding," she said, her voice small.

"It's not my blood. It's dried."

Damon stared at her, expressionless.

"What did you do," she asked shakily.

"What did _you_ do," he retorted haughtily. "Today. What did _you_ do?"

She could feel herself reddening from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

"What did you let _him_ do, Elena?" He rephrased.

He put his hands on her shoulder and slid them up to the sides of her neck, cupping the back of her head. He leaned forward, his blue eyes were blazing.

"I didn't let him do anything," she said in a low voice. She didn't even bother to act as if she wasn't with John.

"So it wasn't consensual?"

"What wasn't?"

Damon pressed his cool forehead to hers. Elena raised her hands and circled them around his wrists, resting them there. He could hear the sound of her blood swishing through her arteries like a swift warm river. He imagined the current coursing through her veins and he felt his fans unsheath in response.

Elena wasn't sure what she wanted. He was so close to her. Perhaps she wanted him to envelop her. To put his arms around her naked back and pull her against his chest. She hadn't realized she was tipping her mouth up towards him until she felt his entire body tense up. He pulled back and stared down at her. His face was blank, indiscernible.

"I've already tasted his blood, Elena. I don't want his kiss, too." His tone was gentle.

He released his hands from her neck and stood back. Her look was a mixture of shock and anguish. For him or for John, he didn't know.

_She's quite broken, you know..._

"He's dead," she said. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes. He is dead."

"And the opium," she asked shamelessly.

Damon crossed the room and slid on his overcoat. He paused and turned towards Elena, drinking her in with a hungry gaze.

"What do you think," he asked.

"Get out," her voice was firm.

"I was never even here," he told her.

She blinked and he was gone.

* * *

Friday was pure mania.

Elena had been transplanted back to the Royal Palace along with her children with the anticipation of the return of Prince Matthew. Her goodbye to Vrana had been bittersweet. She knew that she would eventually return to her beloved palace and to her rolling gardens. Until then, she and the children would be under the austere and impersonal roof of the grand palace.

The ground floor of the palace served for administrative purposes therefore Elena rarely stepped foot into that area. The second floor housed the grand ballroom while the third floor was a service floor. Located in the east wing were the royal apartments where Elena was currently settling in. The entire palace was bustling with maids, butlers, handlers, guards, helpers and coordinators as they hurriedly moved the royal family back into the palace and simultaneously put the finishing touches on the ballroom for the night's festivities.

After Elena halfheartedly assisted her ladies in settling her children into their rooms, she wandered into the King's bedchamber that occupied her husband and sometimes occupied by she. A massive, ornate four poster bed sat in the center of the room. Made of a dark oak, the tester above the bed was draped in heavy curtains of gold and burgundy that were charmingly tied at the head of the bed. Elena had transcended from girlhood to womanhood in this bed. She stared blankly at the rich comforters, recalling the often passionless sessions with her husband. She shuddered and crossed her arms absently. Her ladies had placed her night garments into a nearby dresser in case she would spend the night there. In case…

Elena shook her head and released herself from her stupor. It was two days since her last taste of opium and she was feeling a bit edgy. Her natural reaction was to call on Sir John. But there was no Sir John, she told herself blankly. Damon had seen to it. There had been a mysterious fire at Lyon Grange. Sir John's remains were found in the ashes. The news hadn't been surprising but hearing it felt so…final. She knew her husband would be grieved, at least slightly, by the news. She wouldn't miss John, no. She just missed the abandon he represented. Even still, she was sure there had to be a way to find opium elsewhere. She was the Princess, after all. What was the point of being in the position of power if she didn't exert it accordingly? She knew, though, that she couldn't seek out opium with Matthew's return so close. He would be enraged beyond belief if he found out. Spirits would have to do. For now.

She hadn't heard from Damon since that hellish night two days prior. She wasn't sure if she wanted to. He was a passionately dangerous man. He was a man that was clearly used to getting whatever he wanted. Was he even a man? She didn't understand why she wasn't saturated with fear. She wasn't. She knew he was far from the ideal man. Though, when Elena allowed her mind to wander, she found herself thinking of him. She thought of his kiss, his hands, and his words. She had given herself to him on a platter, hadn't she? She refused to allow the notion that she was besotted with a murderer. Instead, she assured herself that it was a passing curiosity. Beyond that, she didn't have time to think of Damon today. She didn't have time to think of anything else but the ball. It was A Mid-Summer Night's Dream in Bulgaria. And after a quick tour of the ballroom, she was satisfied that her husband and the court would be pleased.

Everything had to be perfect.


	11. Prelude

Damon placed a fitted black mask over his eyes and stared at himself in the mirror. He wore a dark flat hat decorated with a cunning red feather. He wore short doublets over hose. His jacket was red and wide cut with slits in the sleeves. He took the mask off and gave it to Jeremy.

"Elizabethan clothing doesn't suit my tastes," he said dryly, cocking his head to one side.

Jeremy stood beside him and fitted his jester's hat atop his head with a scowl.

"I don't know how you talked me into this," he muttered sadly.

"You talked yourself into it," Damon said with a smirk.

It was mere hours away from the ball and Damon was putting the finishing touches on his costume.

"Well it was this or a fairy. The decision was a tough one, but as you can see, I am sticking with the jester," Jeremy elbowed Damon.

"And what a lovely jester you are," Damon drawled.

They laughed together before lapsing into silence.

"I'm sorry," Jeremy said suddenly, softly.

Damon turned his face to Jeremy before looking at his reflection and readjusting his hat.

"For what?"

"Doubting you."

Damon shrugged.

"You don't have to apologize."

"I know I don't. But I want to."

"Then I accept your apology."

"Thanks."

Damon moved from the mirror and sat in his high back chair. Silence fills the room once more.

* * *

Prince Matthew was a man that was used to getting anything and everything that he wanted. That was the advantage of being royalty and he welcomed it with relish.

The last few months abroad had been dismal and relatively uneventful for him. Matthew fulfilled his diplomatic duties under pressure from his cabinet but he was clearly unhappy about it. It had been six months since he had been to Sofia. It had been six months since he had seen his sons, his friends and his lovers. Also, it had been six months since he had seen his wife. The last time Matthew saw Elena, she was very pregnant and on bed rest. She was swollen and with a belly ripe as fruit. In fact, he missed the birth of his daughter, Eudoxia. He had never even seen this child and had only received the royal announcement stating her birth. He was curious to look at her for many reasons. Born into royalty, he was voted into the position of Prince Regent in 1887 by the Grand National Assembly. Though his accession was met w/ trepidation and outrage, Matthew's reign had proved rather prosperous. In an effort to placate the cabinet by securing his dynasty, he married Elena in 1893. It was an obvious marriage of convenience to everyone but Elena.

She was a young, naïve, beautiful slip of a thing, he recalled. And for a brief time, he enjoyed the attention that she bestowed on him. But as it usually was with women, his mild affection wavered until there was nothing left but indifference. The fact that he succeeded in securing his heirs early on in their union pleased Matthew to no end. He considered his marriage a success. His boys were his legacy. His daughter? Perhaps, she would be the bargaining chip along the way towards reconciliation with a feuding country. He stood in his bedroom, dressing for his homecoming ball.

"Your Highness."

Matthew turned and stared down at Lord Tyler Lockwood as he knelt in reverence to royalty. His lips melted into a wry smile. Matthew nodded once and Tyler rose to his feet.

"Lord Lockwood," Matthew said coolly. "Tell me, how has my court fared in my absence? I trust you have kept a keen eye as I had hoped."

"As I deduced in my letters, we have much to discuss," Tyler said seriously.

Matthew took in the tone of Tyler's voice as he checked his costume in the mirror. His hair was shorn and the color of buckwheat on a sunny afternoon. He wore golden chest plate over a leather tunic. His boots were dark and reached to his knees. He was the picture of a blue-eyed Roman soldier. What a silly theme his wife had conjured. A Midsummer Night's Dream. But he knew she had gone through great lengths to please him and so he felt obligated by the eyes of the court to indulge her.

"In due time," he said calmly.

Lockwood nodded obediently.

"Of course, Your Highness."

Matthew turned suddenly and grabbed Tyler by his neck and pressed him roughly against the wall.

"In the mean time," Matthew said harshly, "get on your knees."

He crushed his mouth against Tyler's parted lips. His tongue wasted no time in delving inside, his mouth fusing against his with blatant familiarity. His hand slid up from Tyler's neck and grabbed a fist full of his hair. Matthew tore his mouth away, leaving Tyler gasping for air.

"Did you miss me," Matthew taunted.

His hips pressed forward into Tyler's pelvis, his hardness straining against the leather tunic.

"Yes," Tyler hissed.

"Good."

He pressed Tyler down on his knees with obvious dominance. Tyler's hands slid up Matthew's thighs and found him without undergarments. Tyler's breath caught in his throat as he grabbed Matthew, throbbing, into his hand. His other hand lifted the tunic and he bent his head forward. He flicked his tongue playfully over the tip Matthew's erection.

"Welcome home," Tyler purred.

Matthew pressed his hips forward and buried himself into Tyler's welcoming mouth. His fingers curled into the dark mass of Tyler's hair. His head fell back and he moaned low.

Welcome home, indeed.


	12. The Ball

**Hours later.**

Matthew sat back in his throne, his eyes heavy with pleasure. He rested his head back into the velvet cushion of his chair, his arms resting casually in the arm rests. Laid before him was the entire court of Sofia—cavorting, laughing, drinking and singing. In the corner, a string quartet played richly.

The ballroom was a relative Garden of Eden. The walls were covered in soft ruched fabrics. Vines were sewn into the fabric and were snaked along the walls. The room was perfumed with the abundance of flowers—petals strewn across the floor. Roses were everywhere—roses, violets, chrysanthemums, peonies. Ladies stood in corseted gowns with wings sewn into the back. Some wore colorful ethereal gowns and had floral crowns sewn into their hair. Ladies had masks propped on a stick and others had them pressed into their face. Men were dressed like Roman soldiers, Elizabethan court men and jesters. A few wore suits and donkey masks. One brave lad dressed in a pastel suit with fairy wings much to the amusement of the crowd.

Matthew found Tyler in the crowd, dancing with one of Elena's ladies in waiting. He smirked to himself. As his eyes scanned the crowd with lazy interest until his gaze fell on a man he had never seen before. There was a dark aura around him and Matthew was immediately intrigued. Even from the distance, he could see the intensity of the man's blue eyes. When his gaze turned back to Tyler, he saw that his lover was aware that his attention had been taken. His expression was stone. Matthew smiled, amused. He wondered absently where his wife was.

Elena stood outside of the ballroom. She felt feverish but she knew that she wasn't sick. Her clammy hands shook slightly at her side and she closed her eyes. She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly through her lips. The guards at the door were watching her with obvious interest. Elena lifted her head and signaled for the guards to open the doors.

Damon stood on an elevated platform and had just taken a glass of champagne into his hand when the heavy sound of the ballroom doors got his attention. There Elena stood like a proud flower nymph, standing amongst the petals. Her dress was styled in a way that he had never quite seen before. It was a sleeveless nude colored, ankle length floor gown. The dress had no petticoats, no corset—it was fitted against Elena like a glove and at quick glance it looked as though she was nude. A cluster of flowers were strategically sewn across her breasts before swirling down and clustering again at the cleft of Venus. The back of her dress had intricately sewn fairy wings splayed out and pointing heavenward. The dress clung to her like wet paper. She wore her tiara atop her head and small rosettes were woven around the diamonds. Her hair was wavy and framing her face. Jasmine buds were in her curls like stars against the dark sky. Her arms were bare and she held a large bouquet of flowers in her hands. Her eyes stared straight ahead as she walked through the crowd that had parted for her.

Matthew watched the court bow in reverence as his wife came towards him. A swift current of lust swept briefly through him. She looked ravishing, he couldn't deny it. She almost looked like the innocent girl he married. Almost. For a moment, he forgot about the crowd and he watched her as she floated towards him. Matthew stood then and his eyes scanned the crowd. He saw the ladies whisper together and the wicked eyes of the men. Her wardrobe was, in all honesty, very scandalous. He watched the sway of her hips. He saw how the pale champagne dress clung suggestively to her like a second skin. Lust was soon replaced with disapproval.

Elena watched Matthew's eyes. When he stood, she saw something that she hadn't seen in years. Though as swiftly as it came, it was extinguished. She saw his face twitch ever so slightly. And she knew he was displeased. Elena bowed to her king, her head faced downward.

"Your Majesty. With love and affection, I welcome you back to the court," She said steadily.

She raised her hand, palm down, towards him to receive his hand.

Matthew's good breeding prevented him from scolding his wife. He took Elena's hand in a grip that was more than firm, and guided her to sit beside him.

"Wife," he acknowledged with a cordial stiffness.

"Husband," Elena said coolly.

She adjusted herself in her seat and crossed her legs, her dress riding up and exposing her calves. She flicked her wrist casually and a glass of wine was presented to her while she set down her bouquet of flowers. Elena took a deep sip of the wine and she traveled the crowd with her eyes. He was the dark raven in a field of paleness. Damon's eyes travelled across the room and stared into hers. Elena looked away quickly, feeling herself redden.

"Who is he," Matthew asked.

"What?" Elena squeaked, turning to Matthew.

"That man. Who is he?"

Elena felt her heart hammer in her chest but she relented in her anxiety when she realized that Matthew was asking for an altogether different reason. It burned her. They both turned, twin movement, and watched Damon as he spoke with a lovely Duchess. Elena's hand twitched in response and her fingers curled towards her palm and into a fist. She watched Damon smile and laugh in a way that she had never been privy to.

"Count Damon de la Salvatore," she said plainly. "He brought good tidings of my Bourbon-Parma kin."

Matthew tore his eyes off of Damon and turned back to Elena.

"You've met him?"

"He came to Vrana."

"Did he now," Matt asked curiously, "So tell me, my lovely wife, how do you find him?"

Elena's lips formed into a thin line. She knew the pretext of his questioning. It was a tactic that he had done many times before. In essence, Elena introduced her husband to many of his lovers. It enraged her. It cut her. But feigning ignorance was her best defense than confrontation.

"Pleasant," she said shortly.

"You may introduce us."

"No," Elena said before she could stop herself.

"What?" Matthew's forehead creased.

Elena smiled brilliantly and patted Matthew's hand.

"What I mean to say it," she said pleasantly, "is perhaps after we have shared a dance? It's been so long."

Matthew's features smoothed and he smiled brilliantly.

"Yes," he said. "We'll dance."

"May I finish my glass of wine?"

Matthew gave Elena a sidelong glance. His eyes drifted to the large glass in her small hand.

"Yes."

She needed to finish the glass of wine. She needed to stop her incessant shaking. It wasn't very noticeable in Elena's outward appearance, but inwardly she was vibrating. She took a great gulp of her wine and held the glass in her lap. She took another drink and took a deep breath. Slowly, ever so slowly, she felt her body begin to slightly relax. She silently thanked God while taking a final drink of the wine. She stood and gestured for her glass to be taken away. Matthew stood and took Elena's hand. The crowd parted to watch them dance the minuet. They clasped their hands together but stood apart. They bowed and began.

Damon's hand curled around his (now) wine glass and watched them with the intensity of a prowling panther. He watched Matthew's hands slide across Elena's skin with familiarity. He watched her lift her head back and laugh as her husband twirled her. He had never seen her smile in such a way and the fact that it was brought about by Matthew annoyed him. Then, for the briefest of moments, her gaze fell on Damon before she blinked and looked away. For all Damon's jealousy, he realized he was watching two very good actors putting on their best show for the court. Even still, he wanted to lunge at the Prince when he watched his hand drift to her lower back. Mercifully, the music ended. The crowd roared with a thunderous applause. They bowed and made their way through the crowd. Her face was pink with embarrassment or maybe excitement as she brought Matthew straight towards Damon.

"Count de la Salvatore," she said formally, without meeting his gaze. "I'd like to give you the honor of being introduced to my husband Prince Matthew of Bulgaria."

"Prince Matthew," Damon nodded his head stiffly.

Perhaps it was because Matthew was so bewitched with Damon, that he didn't realize what Elena realized. Damon had not bowed to him. It was a great sign of disrespect. Matthew's eyes were sapphire jewels of excitement.

"Count de la Salvatore," Matthew said sweetly, "What brings you to Bulgaria."

"Initially, I came for a business venture. Apparently, I am also a messenger—as I was asked to deliver a message to the Princess when I came to Sofia."

"What kind of business," Matthew inquired.

"I acquired a tobacco plantation outside of Krumovgrad. It's a lovely piece of land. I intend to do with it as I have done with all my other business ventures—make money." Damon smiled.

"A capitalist," Matthew realized aloud. He put his arm across Damon's back. "Welcome to Bulgaria, my good man. Let us have a drink."

Damon glanced at Elena before turning a cold smile towards Matthew as they walked towards the bar. Elena stood with her hands clasped, staring downward. She felt alone in the crowd. Cold. Dismissed.

"It would do me a great honor, Princess, if I could have this dance with you."

Elena looked up, surprised. Jeremy, Damon's footman, held a hand out to Elena. His eyes were kind and his smile was genuine. She smiled lightly and put her small hand in his palm.

"Of course," she murmured.

Away they went onto the dance floor.

Damon took a drink of scotch while he kept an eye on Elena. He listened to Matthew inflate his own ego. It took all of his energy not to roll his eyes heavenward as he spoke of his royal advantages and exploits.

"Do you like to hunt, Count," asked Matthew.

Damon's blue eyes slid up and connected with Matthew's very different blue eyes.

"I love to hunt," Damon's voice was low. "I love blood sport."

Matthew laughed obliviously.

"Then you should come hunting with my men and I. _Soon_."

Damon's ears perked up at Matthew's tone. He smiled at the Prince.

"It would be my pleasure," he purred.

And as God's witness, Matthew turned a shade of scarlet.

* * *

"You are a lovely dancer," Elena complimented.

Jeremy smiled.

"Oh no. You've just been lucky. Normally, I step all over the feet of lovely women."

"And what makes me so different," Elena laughed, taking a sip of champagne.

"My master would be very displeased if I crushed the dainty feet of such an enchanting woman," he remarked.

Elena looked up at Jeremy over her champagne glass and felt herself blush.

"The Count is…a very…interesting man."

"He's an honorable man," Jeremy corrected.

"Is he," Elena asked genuinely. Damon didn't strike her as honorable.

"In his own way, yes. He is also generous and quite brilliant."

"Well," Elena breathed, "I certainly hope the Count pays you a decent wage to confess of his finer attributes."

Jeremy laughed and didn't respond.

"Would you like to dance again?"

Before Elena could accept Jeremy's proposal, Damon's voice spoke from behind her.

"Unfortunately Jeremy, she must decline," Damon drawled.

He took Elena's hand and before she could protest, he led her to the dance floor. His hands slid over her waist. And Elena furrowed her brow.

"I'm unfamiliar with this dance position," she whispered.

"Put one hand around my back and rest your other on my shoulder," he said.

Elena did as he commanded and he pulled her close, pressing her against him.

"Oh God," she whispered, looking about the room.

Friends, foes and strangers danced around them but couldn't help but stare at the intimate way the Princess was dancing with the Count.

"Damon…"

"Shh," he whispered as his feet slid expertly across the floor. "Just dance."

She didn't know how to just dance anymore. She wasn't that kind of a girl anymore. She was a woman with scars that wouldn't let her forget. She…

"I have you," he assured her.

Damon secured her in his arms. Elena breathed in deeply and held it in the pit of her stomach. After a moment she breathed out of her mouth. She let her shoulders drop and relax. She listened to the violins. She listened to the strings sing—she listened to the cello's string purr. And somewhere in between there, Elena shut her eyes. She felt the music vibrate inside of her and pour along her skin. She felt the petals on her bare feet as Damon glided with her across the floor. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder…but her common sense kept her from doing so. They moved like a slow burn—warm, smooth. Elena's thumb slid back and forth across his jacket.

_We are in the garden. My feet are in the grass and in the flowers. We are dancing…we are dancing…_

A hush fell across the crowd as they watched them. The music was beautiful. They were beautiful. They were two flowers swaying in the breeze. It almost felt sinful to watch something so lovely, so intimate and yet no one tore their eyes away.

Matthew stood silently, a fever itching under his skin as he watched his wife and the mysterious Count. Before he could discern his emotion, the music hummed to its end…

Elena opened her eyes and in that moment, her mind was clear. She turned her face upward to Damon who was looking down at her. His eyes were blue pools and she could get lost swimming in them. She wanted to take his face into her hands and…

They bowed to the crowd graciously. Elena let her hand slip from Damon's and the warm bond was severed. Reality returned and she was cold again. She grabbed a glass of wine and drifted towards her ladies. Drifted away.

"Your Highness," Vicki smiled, "You look beautiful."

Elena smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thank you." She turned towards Caroline who was standing beside Bonnie. "I'm glad to see you are back with us, my dear Caroline."

Caroline smiled and gave Elena a slight curtsey.

"You and I both," she said softly. "It's a miracle from God."

Elena said nothing and took another drink of champagne as she saw her husband drifting towards Damon. She sighed and turned away.


	13. Afterparty

It was well past midnight when the party wound down and was declared a success.

Prince Matthew had drifted away before Elena had even noticed. She didn't care to know what he was doing or who he was with. She was pleasantly drunk and she didn't want emotion bleeding into her to ruin it. The ballroom looked beautiful, empty—much like her. She scooped up a rose from the floor and thoughtfully told the help that cleaning could wait until morning. She hummed to herself as she trudged to the west end of the Royal Palace. She dragged her feet along the carpet that invoked a dull whisper. Her senses were reasonably numb with did wonderfully for her mental exhaustion.

He caught her unawares. Damon appeared from a dark side corridor and pulled Elena into his arms. His mouth was on hers in an instant. He hauled her into the dark shadows and she didn't resist. Her mind was moving slowly, but her body responded instantly. Her legs wrapped around Damon's waist and her arms went around his neck. He pulled her into the guest bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them.

"I hoped that you would come," she gasped. "God, I hoped…"

Her tongue dove between his lips and danced against his tongue. Her hands tangled in his hair as they tumbled onto the bed. They curled into the sheets, arms and legs tangling like chaotic ropes in a storm. Damon's hand slid up her dress and along her thigh. He mentally memorized her body's topography—the small rise of her hip bones, the smoothness of her stomach, the valley of her breasts. His hand wandered downward. His fingers stole in between her legs, rubbing her clit as his tongue slid along her neck. She moaned, her head back. He could see the twitch of her veins as they pulsated. Her hair was splayed out like a fan, flowers coming loose in her hair. He began to take off the tiara but Elena grabbed his hand and interlocked her fingers with his.

"Come away with me," his voice was steady.

"What," Elena asked breathlessly. "What? No." Her hand drifted over his breeches. "Just make love to me."

Damon pulled his face back slightly and Elena opened her eyes.

"I mean it," Damon said.

She couldn't concentrate while he fingers were moving steadily inside her. She took his hand from between his legs and held it.

"Please," she whispered desperately. "Don't make this more complicated than it is…"

"I'm leaving Sofia," he interrupted.

"What? When?" She suddenly didn't feel so drunk anymore.

"Tomorrow we leave for France. I'm asking you to come with me."

Elena rose up slightly on her elbows, her dress rustling as she did. She looked at Damon, his face illuminated in the moonlight that came through the window. He was beautiful—almost too beautiful to even look at.

"Tomorrow?" She echoed.

"Elena," Damon sat up and looked down at her. "It's not safe for me here. I've made…errors. And for the sake of my life and those around me, I have to leave or I'll keep making them."

"I don't understand…"

"I'll kill him," Damon said suddenly, his eyes hard.

"Who?"

She didn't need to ask who he was referring to. Her husband. The Prince of Bulgaria. Damon would murder him.

"Why," she barely managed to breathe.

"I can't control myself with you. I want to…I want everything better for you."

"So is that why you killed John," she said soberly. "To make things better for me?"

"He raped you."

"What did you say," her voice was raised and shaky. Her head was suddenly pounding and a wave of nausea flooded her senses.

Rape. She had never said the word out loud. She had always refused to think of those hazy nights with John. It couldn't have been that, no.

"Elena, he took advantage of you while you weren't in the right state of mind." Damon held her hands fiercely. "That's rape, darling…that's…it's…"

_Rape._

The word was ugly, dirty. She had heard brutal stories of women being attacked on the streets on the wrong side of town. She heard stories of women being abused and sold into slavery. But those women weren't protected. Those women didn't have her advantages, her power. Rape happened by strangers in the night—not by dear friends! It happened with a knife and cruel words...not while she smoked dreams into her lungs. Elena shook her head.

"We never…I never..." Her voice trailed off. She looked back up at Damon, a tear sliding down her face.

"Shhh," Damon hushed her. "We don't have to talk about it. You just need to get away from here, it's killing you."

"Killing me?"

He kissed her temple and pulled her against his chest.

"Don't you want better for yourself? Don't you want to be with someone who wants you back?"

Elena's laugh bubbled out of her throat—hard and cruel.

"Wants me back? Do you even know what you are saying? You want me? On what planet? All I am and would ever be is a replacement for that Katherine woman. I'd be standing in her shoes, dancing in her dresses and living in a dream land!"

_Katherine…_

Damon's heart contracted.

"I care for you," he tried to justify.

"You don't know the meaning of the word. You…touch me and it's burning me alive, Damon. My husband is killing me with his coldness and you are killing me with your heat."

Damon didn't know how to respond.

"I care for you," he said again. "I know I do."

Elena wanted to desperately dive headfirst into that warmth, that security. To run away would be an adventure. Damon thrilled her, hypnotized her. But she couldn't trust him. She knew very well about building castles in her mind and how they always ended in ruins. He hadn't said the things that she needed to hear. Lest she forget her children…she couldn't leave her children. What would happen to them? She might not be the best mother but she couldn't abandon them.

She was standing now, situating her dress in her hands.

"Elena," Damon called, his tone losing strength.

"You care for me the way you care for a piece of cake," she said lightly. "I'm tempting aren't I? But what happens, Damon, when you've consumed all of me?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She pulled the door open and shut it behind her. She clasped her hand to her mouth to keep a sob from coming out of her mouth. She heard thunderous steps advancing down the main hall. Elena lifted her eyes and pressed herself into the shadow. A bright flash of pinks and purple—a flash of wings fluttered by. A woman. It was a woman she knew very well. She begin to walk forward but froze again when another heavy step bounded down the hall. Lord Lockwood. Elena absently wondered if Tyler was chasing her. She didn't have the energy to care. She was tired of caring. She cried silently as she walked down the hall. So distracted was she that she nearly ran straight into the naked chest of her husband.

**15 minutes earlier**

Tyler took his Roman cap from atop his head and threw it to the floor.

"You should have just invited him into your bed chamber. I saw how you were watching him," Tyler said obstinately.

"Are you jealous?" Matthew laughed.

"It isn't funny, Matthew."

"Prince Matthew," He corrected Tyler. "How many lovers have I had since I married the Princess, Tyler?"

"I'm not sure, Your Highness," Tyler said.

"You will never be sure. Why? I am the Prince of Bulgaria. I answer to no one. I take what I want whenever I want it. It's what I was born for. I'm royalty. You'd do well to remember it. He isn't a threat just…something that has caught my fancy. Don't be so transparent, lover. I still fancy you as well."

Matthew reached down and grabbed Tyler in between his legs. Tyler's body jolted as if he'd been stung. He hissed lightly through his teeth and closed his eyes.

"I put eyes on him." Tyler whispered. "That's what's I've been trying to tell you. But you keep distracting..."

"Eyes, hmm," Matthew drawled.

"Yes," Tyler's voice hitched.

His head pressed back against the wall.

"Matt-"

"Ah, ah," Matthew chided.

"My Prince," Tyler corrected. "Please…"

"Please?"

"Yes…"

"Say it."

"I beg you…"

"I love when you beg."

Matthew crushed his mouth to Tyler's. His hand slid up and secured around Tyler's neck. His tongue slid down the curve of his neck and he bit playfully into his shoulder. His hand pulled down Tyler's undergarments from under his tunic. He turned Tyler away from him and into the wall. Matthew loosened the drawstrings of his own drawers and pulled his throbbing cock into his hand. He then brought his saliva onto his fingertips and lubricated himself. He pressed Tyler's hip towards him with one hand while the other guided himself into the tight opening. He let out a guttural moan and pressed his face into Tyler's back.

"Oh, God. Lover…" Matthew moaned against Tyler's skin.

He kissed Tyler's neck as he withdrew and buried himself inside him again. In his haze, he normally wouldn't have noticed. But somehow his eyes concentrated on a sliver of light that was reflecting on the wall. It was a sliver of light that hadn't been there a moment before. His heart contracted and he turned swiftly and saw that his door was slightly ajar. A dark silhouette froze before running out of view down the hallway. Matthew swore, pushing himself off of Tyler.

"What is it," Tyler asked, dazed.

Matthew pulled his pants over his erection and swung his face to Tyler.

"Why didn't you lock the fucking door? Someone is out there."

Tyler's eyes widened with realization. He stumbled forward as he slid up his undergarments. He watched Matthew who moved towards his wash basin and began to clean himself.

"What do I do?"

"Find them, you idiot."

Matthew pressed the washcloth to him and listened as Tyler's steps fell away and down the hall. His heart was pounding in his chest. Where in the hell were his incompetent guards? Who had seen? What had they seen? He knew of the rumors and normally didn't care but if someone of merit actually saw something…! A million thoughts raced throw his head. Matthew threw the cloth down and in a blind moment of impulse, he walked towards the door and burst into the hallways.

At that exact moment, he came face to face with Elena. Her face was red, puffy. Tears glittered on her cheeks. She gasped readily and her hand flew to her face, wiping her tears away.

"Your Highness," she said, bowing.

It was unfathomable to Elena to see Matthew in such a state. He stood bare-chested, only wearing his drawers. The look in his eyes was wild. He was usually so collected. My God, did he see her with Damon?

"What did you see?" Matthew asked quickly.

"Pardon me?"

Matthew lunged forward and took Elena's hand and pulled her into the room and locked the door with a hard snap. Elena gasped and wrenched her hand free.

"Matty!"

"Don't say a word," Matthew's voice shook. His blood was pumping like mad through his veins.

Before she could speak, Matthew's lips swallowed anything she could have thought to say. Elena stood completely immobile for a long moment. Matthew's arm curled around Elena's waist and pulled her against him. She could feel his hard cock pressing against her. Elena raised her hand against his chest to give her leverage to push back. But her resolve died once her skin was against his. Had he seen? Had she seen? They were two uncertain people with something to prove. Elena thought of Damon as her lips parted, welcoming the brandy kiss of her husband. She wanted to feel something. She wanted to feel anything. She wanted to remove everything from her mind but physical gratification. She wanted someone—anyone but Damon, to give that to her. Her head was pounding and her heart was shattered. She desperately clung to her Matthew as his hands roamed across her dress.

Matthew was angry. The interruption with Tyler was unexpected. Being caught unaware was disconcerting. She had been crying hadn't she? If it was Elena who had seen, then a part of Matthew didn't think it was a great ordeal. He knew she knew. And yet here he was—tearing apart her dress in his hands with the anxiousness of a young boy. He needed a release and he didn't care how. Moreover, he had to make her forget that she saw anything.

"You're never wearing this again," he said, gasping. He tore apart her dress at the seams. For a brief moment, he had enjoyed her in it. That moment had been replaced with jealousy and disapproval. He may not typically want his wife, but by God, no one else would have her.

"Fine," Elena agreed shakily.

His fingers kneaded into her skin almost painfully. He pushed her towards the bed and turned her back towards him. He pushed her forward and bent her over the bed. He took his hardness into his hands and guided it into her sheath, wet and ready. He thought of Tyler, of Sir John, of Trevor—anyone and everyone to keep himself in the current mindset. He slammed himself into Elena, his eyes screwed shut and his head bent back. And for a blinding moment, everything fell away. They were husband and wife. This was what they were meant to do. To take, to love. Elena's cheek rested against the satin coverlet, her body rocking back and forth with the force of every thrust. He had never had her with this kind of ferocity. Her fingers curled into the sheet and she closed her eyes. Reality bled into her senses. Her heart wasn't into this. She knew his wasn't. She lifted her head, a unstoppable moan sliding through her lips and from the corner of her eye she watched him with his eyes closed. There was a time when she had dreamed of a passionate moment such as this with him. Her victory held no joy. He wasn't thinking of her. He was thinking of them, she knew. She pressed her cheek into the bed and stared at the wall as she made murmured the appropriate words to Matt with wifely obligation. She felt her body begin to tense and she shut her eyes. She felt like a whore. She felt disloyal. It was wrong. This was her husband, she knew. Yet it felt wrong. Damon…

As her body racked with the spasms of an orgasm, she begin to sob. The first time her husband brought her to orgasm and it was in this way. Her climax gave way to a canyon of emptiness.

He heard her. Matthew looked down, his hips instinctually pressing in and away from her. He felt her tighten around his hardness and he felt a deep throb against his groin that signaled he was close to orgasm. He grabbed a pillow that lay beside him and pressed it over Elena's face, muffling her voice. He couldn't listen to her like this. She would ruin it. His mind travelled with memory to his indiscretions and it guided him forward. Matthew pitched forward and with a final hard thrust, buried himself deep in Elena and signaled his release. His voice was raw and he collapsed on top of her, pushing the pillow onto the floor.

They didn't move for a long moment. Elena bit her lip, trying to hush herself.

"What's wrong with you," Matthew asked finally, as he pulled their bodies apart.

Elena stayed frozen in place, her body bent over the bed.

"Nothing," she barely whispered.

Matthew rolled his eyes. He didn't care to coax it out of her. This was Elena to the fullest—dramatic and perpetually forlorn. Hadn't he just given her something she ached for?

"Fine," he said shortly. "I need to get some sleep."

His hint couldn't have been more obvious. Elena pushed herself up and walked towards her dresser drawer. She opened it and pulled out a chemise and slid pulled it on over her head. She walked towards the door.

"Wife," Matthew called out suddenly.

Elena stopped and turned towards Matt.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

He gestured to the floor.

"Don't forget your clothes," he said blandly. "Take them and have them thrown away. I never want to see you in something so obscene again."

"Yes, Your Highness," she said robotically.

She picked up her clothes and pulled them against her chest. She opened the door wide and closed it behind her. No sooner did she lift her head did she see Tyler standing in the hall with his back pressed against the wall. He looked down immediately and straightened his back. What was with everyone sneaking up on her and catching her unaware? Elena swept her arm up dramatically and gestured towards Matthew's bedroom door.

"Oh, Lord Lockwood. What perfect timing. I'm sure he will be in bed and ready for a second helping soon. Go inside."

Did she just say that? Yes she had. Tyler lifted his gaze swiftly, alarmed. Elena turned her back to him. She lifted her head proudly and walked down the hall towards her room. Her pace began to quicken until she was running. She sprinted to her bedroom door and closed it behind her. She pressed her back to the floor, shaking violently. She slid to the floor before her body folded into the floor. She cried.


	14. Voyeur

**30 minutes ago.**

Damon watched Elena leave the room and made no attempt to stop her. He felt defeated. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Katherine's ghost was lingering over their heads. He hadn't thought of her in weeks. But maybe there were unresolved emotions that needed to be settled. Damon's fingers ran across the jasmine flowers that Elena's hair left behind. One of the rosettes from her tiara laid solitarily on the sheets. Damon picked it up and twirled its stem between his index finger and thumb. He slid it into his lapel and stood. He straightened his costume and walked out of the room. Damon turned left out of the darkened hallway and began to head towards the grand staircase. That was when he heard it. A scream, a cry. Damon paused, his ears on alert. He moved with the stealth of a cat as he advanced forward, hiding behind a large column.

"You're disgusting!" She moaned.

"Please! Let me explain!"

Damon recognized the voice of Lord Lockwood.

"There is no explaining, Tyler. What could you possibly say?"

"I…" He trailed off.

"You lied to me," She spat. "You used me."

"No, it's not true."

"It isn't? We were supposed to be married! I was supposed to be Lady Lockwood and instead…Tyler, it's deplorable. It's a sin against God. You're damned to hell."

"You don't know what you are talking about," Tyler's voice was suddenly low.

"Oh, but I do. I knew something was amiss. I could feel it. And I knew of the rumors but I didn't want to believe. I loved you, you bastard. You fed me sweet words—you told me everything I wanted to hear. And for what? Hmm? So I could be the little spy in Princess Elena's chamber? Was that what this was all about?"

"I need you," Tyler said. "Don't you understand?"

"I understand that you need me to be where you can't. I'm the one who alerted you of her opium addiction. I'm the one who discovered that the Princess bedded the Count. Without me, you would never have known that de la Salvatore is some kind of demon from hell."

"Keep your voice down," Tyler whispered furiously.

"Everyone will know," she taunted. "Everyone will know that the Prince likes you to play the role of _Princess_."

"Stop."

"You've crossed many people, Lord Lockwood. You've finally crossed the wrong one," Her words were ice. "You're finished. Everyone is Sofia will know."

Damon peered behind the column at precisely the wrong moment. Her eyes flickered past Lockwood's shoulder and her gaze connected with him. She saw her blink with surprise but before she could raise alarm, her attention was ripped away as Tyler's hands went around her neck. Her eyes widened with surprise and she was gasping. She clawed at his face, at his hands.

Damon came out from behind the column. She was frantic and was her eyes went from Tyler to Damon. She was silently pleading for Damon to intervene.

"You bitch," Tyler said. "I won't let you ruin this. I won't let you ruin us."

Damon's teeth unsheathed as he watched this predatory act intiated by Tyler.

_Help me._

Damon's head gave the slightest hint of a shake. No. He wouldn't intervene. She knew too much. There was nothing he could do.

Her face was beet red and her movements were becoming sluggish. Her knees were beginning to bend under her weight. Tyler tumbled to the floor with her. His grip was an anchor to her neck. He banged her head once against the marbled floor as they lay at the summit of the stairs.

"Why did you have to come looking for me," Tyler's voice was breaking.

Vicki didn't respond. She would never again move her lips or blink her eyes. She'd never laugh or cry or make love. Her eyes stared blankly ahead, as if she was looking at the ceiling. But she wasn't looking at the ceiling. She wasn't looking at anything at all. Vicki was dead.

Damon watched as Tyler stood suddenly. It was as if he finally realized the severity of his actions. Damon pressed himself behind the column again. What should he do? Should he kill him. Yes. He knows too much.

"Oh God," Tyler whispered shakily.

Before Damon could move, the sound of other feet could be heard along the carpet. Their shouts had alerted an audience. This was too dangerous. He had to hide.

"Help," Tyler called out suddenly.

It was a calculated move, Damon could give him that. Damon slid into an empty room as he listened to the stomping feet of the guards. Voices were raised and people began to run. Damon wondered what was happening, but he knew that he had to leave at once or he would end up just like Vicktoria. Dead. Damon slowly opened the door a crack and saw Tyler rushing away from the scene of the crime and heading straight for the royal bedchambers. Damon slid through the door silently and stole out into the night.

Tyler had walked into Matthew's bedroom, taking a final glance back at the departing Princess. His nerves were pudding. Elena knew about him and Matthew. She confirmed it before she walked away. And yet he stood outside the door and listened to his moans, her moans.

"You fucked her?" Tyler asked.

"She's my wife."

"I know but…"

"But what? Why are you here? Did you find our voyeur?"

Tyler sat down on the settee and stared across the room at Matt, who was lounging in bed.

"We need to talk about what has been going on in your absence," Tyler said darkly. "And yes, I found the person."

Matthew felt himself tense with anticipation. Tyler brightened the oil lamp and thought of how to begin.

"You're bleeding," Matthew said.

"I know." He noticed fleetingly that Elena didn't seem to notice.

"Tell me," he said seriously.

Vicktoria always knew she was meant for the finer things in life. She was meant for champagne and jewels. She was meant to be waited on hand and foot. Though she was born into a slightly upper class family, Vicktoria was by no means royalty. She kicked and clawed her way into Sofia society. She had to be noticed. She had to be beautiful. If she couldn't be born into privilege, she could marry into it. This was exactly how she set her sights on Lord Tyler Lockwood.

Tyler was beautiful. He could have had any woman in the court. While he occasionally gave some of the ladies attention, he never seemed to commit. She had heard the rumors that the Prince and Tyler were inappropriately close. She refused to believe it. No. He just hadn't found the right woman. She called on him constantly. She showered him with compliments. She gave him trinkets of affection. And although he seemed to appreciate her, he made no attempts to secure her love.

As fate would have it, six months ago, everything changed. The Prince had just left abroad, leaving Lord Lockwood to be his emissary in his absence. And it was as if over night, Tyler began to court Vicki in private.

"Why can't we announce our engagement?" Vicki asked one day, annoyed.

"It's because we need the blessing of the Prince, my love. It's disrespectful if we announce it before. You haven't told anyone, have you?"

"You told me not to!"

"That's my girl."

Tyler pulled Vicki towards him, kissing her expertly on the mouth.

"Oh," Vicki breathed. "I've learned of something that may interest the Prince."

_Matthew…_

Tyler's demeanor changed instantly.

"What news?"

"The Princess has been overindulging with opium again. Bonnie told me she was nearly catatonic."

"Isn't she on bed rest? Maybe she's just tired from her condition?"

"Oh no, love. It's not her pregnancy. It's the opium. From him."

"Sir John?"

"Who else?"

Tyler smiled inwardly. He had recently mounted enough evidence of Sir John's misgivings to remove any affection that Matthew had for him. Vicki noticed the light that flickered life in his eyes.

"Are you pleased?"

Tyler pushed Vicki on to the bed.

"I'll show you the extent of my pleasure."

Making love to Tyler put Vicki in a haze. Granted, the first few sessions were awkward and for Tyler…he had difficulty performing. But she felt that they had hit their stride. They were to be married soon. Everything would be right as rain.

When Vicki first began to spy on Elena's deeds, she had felt guilty. She had been a lady in waiting for several years now. Elena confided in her and considered her a friend. Vicki just had to remind herself that the end justified the means. All she wanted was to be Lady Lockwood. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she would be the bearer of such scandalous information. While she occasionally felt disloyal, she also felt superior. Tyler valued her. She knew that knowledge was indeed power.

From the moment that Vicki laid eyes on Count de la Salvatore, she knew that he was a man to watch. He was beautiful, she couldn't deny it. Everything about him was seductive. The way he looked at the Princess was scandalous—he made love to her with his stare. She noticed they had begun to spend time alone together and she made sure to pass along the information to Tyler.

"Do you think she's taken him into her bed," he had asked.

"No," she shook her head. "Not yet."

"I need to know the moment she does."

"Of course, my love."

The night of the opera, Vicki knew that this was it. He made no attempt to hide his hungry gaze towards Elena. Vicki stood in the corner with Bonnie and clicked her tongue softly.

"The Princess is besotted with him," she whispered.

"What," Bonnie shook her head. "I don't think so. She can barely stomach the sight of him."

"Perhaps you're right…"

The Count and the Princess had had a silent duel the entire duration of the play. And as they rode home in silence, she knew that rain nor wind would keep the two of them apart. As she watched Elena go up to her bedchamber alone, Tyler stood at the bottom of the stairs with Vicki. He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"Follow her," he whispered huskily. "And then come find me."

His hand drifted over her suggestively as he leaned in and kissed her quickly.

Vicki walked slowly up the stairway. She removed her shoes-she couldn't afford for her heels to click along the marble. She crept silently towards Elena's bedchamber and ever so slightly opened the door to peek in. Elena was standing in front of the open window, standing in a chemise. What was she doing? Her heart nearly jumped in her throat when the Princess turned and sprinted towards the door. Vicki flew back and pressed herself against the wall, shutting her eyes. _Oh, God. Please don't see me. _Elena flung the door open and ran down the hallway, away from her. Vicki's breath escaped from her lips like a deflating balloon. She saw her disappear downstairs and run towards the kitchen. Vicki thought to follow her but instead she wandered into the bedroom. The curtains were opened wide, which was strange to see in a bedroom that was often suffocating itself. The thunder rumbled fiercely as the raindrops pelted the glass on the window. Vicki was drawn forward, lightning illuminating the room is dramatic bursts. She saw her then—a white lily floating in the darkness of the garden. Her eyes traveled with Elena as she ran through the rain.

She's gone mad, Vicki thought.

But no, she hadn't. There to catch her in a fierce embrace was unmistakably Damon. Though they were a great distance from Vrana, it was surely him. Vicki was frozen in her spot as she watched them. The passion, even from here, was palpable. She saw his head bent towards her shoulder, his body thrusting forward—Elena's legs curled around him. There was no denying what she was seeing. Vicki's breath was caught in her throat. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Her hands fisted her skirt in her palm. Whatever they had between them was something so powerful. Something so foreign. It was then her turn to run—run down corridors and down stairs. She burst into Tyler's room, looking feral.

Tyler sat up in bed suddenly, naked underneath his bed sheets.

"What did you see," he asked suddenly.

Vicki breathed loudly.

"What did you see," he asked again, urgently.

She tore off her clothes and climbed on top of Tyler. Words could be spoken later. Now? Now she had needs that must be met. After an animalistic session of sex with Tyler, Vicki smoked a rolled cigarette as she retold what she had seen. Tyler was in disbelief.

"I have to tell the Prince," he shot out of bed.

"Love, it's late. There is no way you could reach him now. Write him in the morning. Better still, tell him when he is home. Don't ruin his trip. He is on important business. This could distract him greatly. It will devastate him."

Tyler weighed Vicki's words. She had no idea how little Matthew cared for his wife.

"I have things to attend to," he said finally.

"Are you dismissing me?"

"I have pressing things, darling," he kissed her forehead absently and handed her her clothes.

"Fine. I'll go check in on Caroline before bed," she grumbled.

Vicki hadn't been in Caroline's bedroom but for a few moments before she heard the sound of someone coming. Why she hid, she couldn't say. But Vicki wrapped herself in the thick curtains that fell over the window. Considering what she saw, it was a miracle that she was able to keep from screaming.

Damon stood over Caroline, his face contorted in a demonic mask. His teeth, sharp as a canine, ripped into his wrist before pressing his wound into Caroline's mouth. He was forcing her to injest his blood! Vicki held her breath. If he saw her, she knew she was as good as dead. God shined on her that night, she knew. He didn't see her. And now she was more than sure that he was the culprit that had attacked Caroline, not an animal. Did Elena know? Of course she had to know! How couldn't she know? The next morning, Vicki began to doubt what she had seen. It had been late and she knew that had been she exhausted from her day. Though, Elena's incoherent opium babblings on Wednesday night all but confirmed it to Vicki. While at the dressmakers, she mentioned a demon and fangs and her dark prince. While her words meant nothing to Bonnie, they meant very much to Vicki. It was then that she revealed it to Tyler who seemed overly pleased and somewhat frightened.

"What do we do," Vicki had asked.

"We wait. Prince Matthew will be home in two days."

And wait they did. They waited throughout the homecoming party. Vicki knew the ball was going to drop and it was going to drop soon. As soon as she saw Damon and Elena on the dance floor, she knew for certain that tonight would be the night that Tyler would tell Matthew. She wanted to be there. She wanted the praise of the Prince and the praise of her fiancée. She wanted Tyler to bestow her with compliments and ask the Prince for his blessing on their engagement. But she could hardly tie Tyler down for more than a few minutes. He seemed edgy, distant—and annoyingly, he kept close to Matthew for most of the night. As the night wound down, Vicki noticed Tyler and Matthew leaving the ballroom and heading towards the royal apartments. Tyler hadn't even bothered to tell her goodnight! She followed them at a distance, curious. They were talking in low tones and she noticed the droop for Tyler's shoulders. She knew that stance—she knew he was upset. She listened to Matthew laugh and pull Tyler towards him. She froze like a deer in headlights when she saw the Prince kiss her lover. It's as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Tyler pulled away and he looked upset. What was going on? Before she saw anything more, they disappeared into the royal bedchamber. She should have ran away. She should have erased what she had just seen. But no. She couldn't do it. She advanced forward and found the door ajar. That's when her rose colored glasses were shattered. That's when the deception of Lord Tyler Lockwood finally became clear. He and the Prince were lovers. And she? She was just a means to and end. Anger and hurt bubbled to the surface and it was then she saw the Prince turn back towards the door. She had been spotted.

And so she ran. She ran away towards her death.


	15. Stolen

After her one sided confrontation with Tyler in the hallway, Elena managed to crawl into bed and lay curled in fetal position. Opium. Opium. Opium. She wanted to scream. Her head was pounding unnaturally. She was drenched in sweat. She just wanted this day to be over. She wanted to fall asleep but her body wouldn't let her. In the larger spectrum of things, the ball had been a success. But to Elena, it was a personal failure. Matthew had begun his obvious slow seduction of Damon, Damon was acting irrational, Lockwood was being a constant thorn in her side. And Sir John—the only man who could cure her ailments, was dead. Life was indeed a cruel mistress.

She sighed and laid flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She hated this bed, this room. She'd rather be back at Vrana. All she had to endure was a few more months of Matthew's presence before he would be off on his next diplomatic adventure. She pulled herself out of bed and grabbed her silk robe. She knotted the strings at her waist as she walked towards a bourbon decanter. Bourbon was a gentleman's drink. It was a drink that wasn't meant for women but Elena's enjoyed it. She enjoyed the sweet bite on her tongue before she swallowed it back. A warmth settled in her stomach first, and then it was spread out over her entire body. Elena took another deep drink and turned. She gasped and jumped, her glass shattered as it hit the floor.

Jeremy didn't have time to explain. He pulled Elena into his arms and covered her nose and mouth with a cloth that had been soaked in ether. Elena struggled briefly as she ingested the stimulant. It burned far more than bourbon ever could as it slid down her nasal passage. Her pulse increased tenfold and a fullness expanded in her head. Before she could even assess the situation, she fell limp into Jeremy's arms. Jeremy cursed to himself as he tossed her over his shoulder with ease. He opened a window and stepped onto the roof of the palace. He moved with an unnatural speed and jumped safely onto the ground below. He settled Elena into the Salvatore carriage and whipped his horses to run through the moonless night.

**The Next Afternoon. April 9th. ****Üsküb, Macedonia**

The voices were hushed, urgent. Elena was on the cusp of sleep and awake. She lay in a small bed, covered in a heavy wool blanket. The accommodations were a stark contrast to her plush palace life. The room was nearly bare and the walls were stone. The floor was hard, packed earth.

"We can't stay here long," whispered the first voice.

"I know," said the second voice.

"The horses are nearly dead. We'll need to buy new ones…or steal. We won't get these ones past the city. And we need to get out of the city as soon as possible."

"She needs rest," the second voice sighed.

"We nearly died in Sofia because of her!"

"Watch where you direct your anger," the second voice warned.

Elena was awake now and she recognized that the 2nd voice was Damon.

She sat up slowly and felt a rush of pain course viciously into her head. She gasped loudly and pressed herself back in the bed. She suddenly realized how nauseated she felt. The voices paused and Damon entered the room and walked towards Elena. She stared up at him and blinked slowly.

"Where am I," she asked hoarsely.

Damon took a small pitcher beside the bed and poured water into small cup that he handed to Elena. She sat up and took a sip, clearing her throat.

"We're in Üsküb." He confessed.

Elena's eyes widened. She stumbled out of bed and nearly tumbled to the ground. Damon grabbed her and pulled her to him. Her cup was knocked from her hands and fell to the floor.

"What am I doing in Üsküb? Whose house is this? Have you gone mad?"

"Calm down so I can explain," Damon said evenly.

"Did you kidnap me? Oh God…"

The night before came back to her. She remembered seeing Jeremy in her bedroom and struggling in his arms. Yes, she had been taken.

"You kidnapped me! You had your footman…"

Elena struggled weakly in Damon's arms and managed to slap him. Damon grabbed her arms and pinned them at her side.

"I'm saving your damned hide, you stubborn mule!"

He sat back on the bed and held Elena in his lap. She struggled as much as she possibly could, but she gained no ground. Her head was pounding even more and she felt like vomiting.

"You're a fool," she declared loudly.

"Yeah, well…" Damon shrugged.

"I want to go home," Elena was beginning to panic.

Since she was a child, she had never been alone. There were always handlers and chaperones to care for her. Despite Damon being here, Elena felt as if she was without that cushion. It was a cushion that she hadn't realized she had. Matthew must have everyone looking for her. And her children…!

"You're going to get yourself killed," She whispered quickly.

"I'm already dead," Damon sighed.

Elena pushed herself off of Damon's lap and stared down at him. Already dead? She knew, didn't she? She had always known there was something otherworldly about Count Damon de la Salvatore. There had always been that nagging little voice in the back of her mind. Isn't that why she wasn't afraid when she saw his contorted face that stormy night?

"Vampire," she whispered.

Damon nodded once, saying nothing as he watched her.

Elena felt a heavy wave of queasiness wash her entire body. It bubbled in her stomach and her hand flew to her mouth. She ran towards a nearby basin and fell to her knees. She heaved the dinner contents of the previous night into it. Her entire body tensed and her palms were laid flat on either side of the basin. Elena spit, a very unladylike gesture, and sat on the floor. She closed her eyes. As if her morning couldn't get any worse, Damon admitted he was a vampire and she had just vomited. She was now beyond embarrassed. Damon was squatted beside her and handed her a cloth to wipe her mouth.

"It's going to get worse," he said plainly.

Elena looked up at him and took the cup of water from his other hand.

"What is?"

"You. You're sick. How many days has it been since you last had opium?"

Elena's heart contracted at the sound of the word—like the name of a lover.

"Too long."

Damon's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.

"Your body is used to having what it wants at regular intervals. Your body is, in a sense, going into shock because you haven't had it. So you're going to be worse before you are better."

Elena stood and trudged back to the bed. She sat on the edge of it.

"Or you could find me opium and I would be fine."

Damon stood up and walked over to her. He put his finger under her chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze.

"Too many people have indulged you for too long. No more, Elena. You look sick. You act mentally deranged. You've made terrible choices. Your health is frail. It has to end."

"Mentally deranged, you say," Elena laid back down. "It's a wonder I've managed to attract your attention at all."

"You've gotten underneath my skin."

Damon put his hand over Elena's forehead. She was burning up.

"You have a fever," he said softly.

Elena removed his hand and closed her eyes.

"Why am I here, Damon? What happened?"

* * *

Before he had even gotten home, Damon could taste a sense of danger in the air. As he cautiously rode his horse towards his estate, he found it was already occupied with several Bulgarian soldiers. Damon quietly spoke to his black stallion while he pulled back onto the reins and directed under the dark cover of large English Oak. It's wide spreading of rugged branches provided ample cover for Damon and the horse, Stefan.

From the cover of brush, he watched as a body, Vicki's body, was pulled from a carriage and dragged up the stairs of his porch. Not care was taken to her corpse. Her dress, splendid only hours ago, was wrinkled and torn. A bent fair wing was bent out underneath her. Her hair had fallen loose from her pins and framed her face like snakes. A guard grabbed her wrist pulled her across the porch and dragged forward. He couldn't help but stare at her lifeless face as it was dragged into the darkness of his home. He could have saved her. Just then, he heard the sound of vicious barking.

A dark pain coursed through his un-beating heart.

"Zeus," Damon whispered suddenly.

An image of his prized mastiff flickered to life in his mind. His dog was with him on the day that he had met Elena. He was such a majestic creature. The sudden crack of a pistol tore Damon out of his thoughts. The subsequent whimpering made him jerk and then stop. Stefan pranced uneasily and breathed loudly through his nose. So preoccupied with other things, he hadn't realized until that very moment, what was happening.

He was being framed for the death of Vicktoria. By Matthew? By Tyler? Did it matter. Tyler knew what he was. And there was no doubt in his mind that Matthew was now aware of that fact as well. Damon was a demon—a vampire who had seduced his wife.

_Elena!_

What would happen to her in all of this mess? She would be, in the eyes of everyone, an adulteress. Perhaps they would call her a traitor. They could accuse her of consorting with a demon. All of these thoughts coursed through Damon's mind in a matter of seconds. He had no choice. He couldn't take on the entire Bulgarian Army. They had to run. His blood ran cold when he knew that he couldn't make it back to the Royal Palace in time. His mind concentrated fiercely on Jeremy. Jeremy was his only hope.

Jeremy was lying in a plush bed with velvet sheets. The prostitute that fawned over him was his favorite. She looked like a doll with her dark hair and dark eyes. And so it was extremely vexing that no sooner had her lips claimed his cock, did Damon invade his mind so swiftly that he jumped. The woman between his legs gagged at his sudden movement and her jaw clamped down as a result. Jeremy screamed and pushed himself back, holding himself in his hands. His prostitute swore obscenities with such beautiful Bulgarian that he couldn't help but pull her back into his arms and kiss her.

_Not now, _thought Jeremy.

Damon would not be so easily deterred. They both knew it. Jeremy sighed and ended his kiss as his head began to throb. Jeremy hated when Damon would invade his mind but the intensity was alarming. Something was amiss. After he paid the woman and walked quickly towards his carriage, did his mind open and a flood of information pooled in.

_Take Elena. Meet me outside of town._

Jeremy was never one to be disloyal and while he wasn't quite happy with Elena situating herself into his and Damon's life, he did as he was told and stole the Princess in the dead of night.

There was one thing for certain—Damon owed him now. This was something they both knew.

Damon sat back, watching Elena's reaction to his reasoning for taking her from Sofia.

"He…he might not have believed Tyler," she said weakly. "He could have stood by me. You took me because of a paranoid idea…"

Even she didn't believe what she said. She knew Matthew would believe Tyler. She knew that he would have been furious. She probably would have been thrown in prison. Or worse.

_Worse._ The word made her shiver.

"Where are you taking me?"

Damon's eyes were level with hers. He looked cautiously passed the door before sliding his eyes back towards Elena.

"France," he said finally. "We are going to France."


	16. All Aboard

**That night.**

When Damon began to pull off Elena's chemise, she was half asleep. She felt the tug of her soft gown being removed and the coolness of the breeze against her naked skin. She sluggishly moved her hand between her legs and mumbled weakly in protest.

"Stop it," Damon muttered, lifting her in his lap and putting on her dress for her. "I've already seen what you look like without clothes. That isn't what this is about."

Elena knew that he was right. Even if he had been lying, she was in no condition to put up a fight.

He dressed her in a simple Macedonia apron dress. He took a starched white scarf and wrapped it around her head and tossed over her shoulder. Elena's eyes opened slowly and she stared down at herself. Never in her life had she looked so…common. It was strange and at the same time, it was almost a relief. She looked like every other woman for once. She didn't have a tiara atop her head, announcing her status to everyone around her. Damon pulled her off the bed and carried her in his arms. She felt like nothing. Elena couldn't possibly describe how horrible she felt. Her body felt heavy. Her head was ballooned with pressure and nausea swished through her. She had thrown up several times and cried so much that she didn't think that there were any tears left to cry. She pressed her head against Damon's chest and closed her eyes. She felt like death and so, in that moment, she wanted to die.

Damon held Elena in his arms and walked out of the small safe house that Jeremy had brought them to. The night was cool, balmy. Jeremy stood outside, smoking a hand rolled cigarette. Damon nodded to him and Jeremy took Elena, now sleeping, from Damon's embrace. Damon slung onto his stallion, Stefan, and then took Elena from Jeremy and settled her into his lap. They said nothing and begun to ride outside of the city and through the darkened roads of Macedonia towards the Kosovo Providence and to the tiny seaside village of Sarande.

When they were well outside the city, Jeremy broke the silence.

"We'll need to stop halfway. Preferably before dawn."

"Do we have any allies in the area?"

"A few."

Damon nodded and kept his eyes focused ahead. The sound of their horses hooves thudded against the dirt road before them. His patted the head of his stallion and murmured encouragement to it. Stefan had been his horse for several years. He felt a pang of guilt that he was riding him so hard as of late. But as soon as they were home, it would have all the rest it needed.

"Sounds fortunate," Damon said finally.

"Is she any better," Jeremy changed the subject.

"It depends on what your definition of 'better' is."

"If she is determined enough, she can find opium anywhere…" Jeremy warned.

"I know."

"A woman like that can interchange addictions faster than you have a chance to blink."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to be mindful that it isn't your responsibility to save her."

Damon gave a hard laugh.

"When did I ever confess to being her savior?"

"You don't have to say anything, Damon. I know you. I've seen how you look at her."

"Are you jealous," Damon asked.

Jeremy felt himself grow hot with annoyance.

"That was a long time ago. We've both changed."

"Are you certain? Because I don't want you laying a hand on her in a moment of misplaced rage."

Jeremy pulled back the reins on his colt so suddenly that it reared back on two legs in protest, neighing loudly in the darkness. Damon pulled back the reins on Stefan and turned him towards Jeremy who was quieting his colt.

"Don't do that," Jeremy ordered.

"Do what?"

"That, Damon. You know the depths of my loyalty to you. I've lied, cheated and killed in your name. You know I wouldn't bring harm on her."

Damon sat quietly in the darkness, his hand unconsciously running up and down Elena's arm.

"I know," Damon said shortly.

"Is this about Katherine?"

Damon's head shot up.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"No," Damon stopped. "Maybe."

"There are exceptions to every rule. She would have killed you. And you would have let her. I would do it again. I have no regrets."

Damon turned his horse without another word. They rode quietly for the duration of their trip.

* * *

Elena woke only briefly for food and to relieve her bladder or angry stomach. It was another day or riding before the scent of salt on the air roused her from her fitful sleep.

It was dawn. She opened her eyes to a wide blue expanse of the great blue sea—the colored twin to Damon's hypnotic eyes. For a brief moment, her heart was light. It reminded her of home. Italy. She had been born in Rome in the year 1870. And until her mother died in 1882, life had been lovely. Although she spent the last two years of her mother's life in France and Switzerland with her governess, the summers belonged to them. She remembered lovely trips to the Tyrrhenian Sea with her mother. How wonderful it was to be so ignorant of the hardships of life. How wonderful to dip a dainty foot into the salt water without a care in the world! Elena's heart closed itself as she thought of her death. It marked the beginning of the end of Elena's naivety to life. Elena blinked slowly as she stared at the Adriatic Sea. A moderately sized passenger liner floated in a nearby dock. The two funneled ship was to ferry them from the Port of Sarande to the Port of Crontone in Italy.

"Will we travel through Rome," Elena heard herself ask.

Damon looked down at her. Traveling through Rome would deviate too far from their path.

"No," he answered calmly.

He felt her sag slightly in his arms but made no attempt to discover the reason for her disappointment. Now wasn't the time. He knew that word of Elena's kidnapping had to have gone all over the telegraph wires the day she disappeared. As it was, it had been sheer luck that they hadn't been yet discovered. It was this thought that made him remember an idea he had a day prior. He put his hand inside of his jacket and pulled a gold thin banded ring from his pocket. He took it from a man that he and Jeremy attacked on the road. They needed to keep up their strength, so sparing him was not an option. As they lowered him into a shallow grave, Damon noticed his ring shining in the moonlight. Out of strange impulse, he took it. Now he knew why.

He took Elena's hand and began to slide her gaudy wedding ring from her finger. Elena's hand jerked back in protest, but he held her by the elbow.

"I don't want it," he sighed. "You keep it safe with you. But walking around with that giant diamond is a beacon even in darkness. Wear this instead."

Elena looked up at him and he looked down at her as he slid the ring slowly onto her wedding finger.

"We're married," he softly joked, though there was no laughter in his eyes.

Elena felt herself redden at the thought.

After presenting fraudulent papers for a Mr. & Mrs. Giovanni Dante and Benicio Dante, they were awarded tickets and allowed to board the ship. Damon handed Jeremy a wad of money and commissioned him to buy clothing and necessities for the trip before the boat left the dock. He also asked Jeremy to persuade the captain to allow his stallions to be kept below the deck. After he disappeared through a small crowd, Damon and Elena were lead through a maze to their stateroom. Damon kept a strong hand at the small of Elena's back. As soon as they entered, he felt her stiffen as she stared at the large singular bed in the corner of the room. Near the bed was a decently sized settee. The ajoining room was a recieving room whose door opened onto the deck of the ship. Damon paid the steward and dismissed him before turning back to Elena.

"We have to appear to be married…"

Elena walked weakly away and sat on the nearby settee.

"I understand," she said softly.

She shut her eyes for a moment and imagined Damon's lips on hers. She opened her eyes again and allowed the image to fade.

"In the interest of your safety, it's best that you not leave the cabin unless you must. And if you must, at night is preferable."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Will you be leaving the cabin at all?"

The silence was poignant. Elena stood and walked towards the bed.

"Did you want me to leave the cabin?"

"I just want to rest," Elena dodged the question.

She pulled herself into the bed and grabbed weakly at the covers.

Damon came over and helped pull the covers onto her. He unknotted her scarf and Elena's hair fell from its confinement.

"It's a two days journey," he told her.

She nodded and turned her back towards him, her face staring at the wall.

"I'm trying to protect you," he added.

Elena closed her eyes, closed out the world. She fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

After travelling through a small portion of Italy and taking another ship to Corsica, they were finally on their last leg of their journey to France. The trip was without incident thus far sufficed to say that Elena had been rather withdrawn. It was their final morning aboard the ship and it was her screams that woke Damon with a start.

He nearly fell off his cot when he heard her scream. Damon was at Elena's bedside in an instant. He yanked her from the bed and put her against his chest. Elena's screams turned to dull sobs as she was pulled from the cruel grasp of a nightmare. She wrapped her arms around Damon's neck as he settled onto the bed.

The front door of their stateroom burst open and Jeremy stood wild-eyed and bare-chested, ready for blood. His shoulders relaxed instantly at the sight of them. Damon shook his head, silently assuring Jeremy that everything was okay. He in turn retreated, relived, back to his room.

Damon ran his hand over Elena's hair and rocked her in his lap.

"Shhh," Damon said softly. "Everything is okay. I'm here. You're okay."

Elena took a heavily shuddered breath and shook her head.

"I can still feel it," She sobbed.

"Feel what, love?"

"What it feels like to die," she said sadly.

"No, no. It's just a nightmare. You're okay."

"You don't understand. I could feel the life draining out of me," she paused. "Maybe you do understand. You life was ended once before, didn't it?"

Damon's hand froze briefly along Elena's hair before continuing.

"What did you dream?"

"You were killing me," she whispered desperately, feeling herself shake. "Your fangs were buried deep inside of my neck and I could feel it. I could feel my life draining out with my blood."

Damon felt himself shudder inwardly at the idea. The thought was too arousing to think on long. Damon put his finger under Elena's chin.

"Elena, I'll never hurt you. I promise you that."

Elena looked up at him, blinking back the last of her tears.

"And if I asked you to," she barely whispered.

Damon felt himself grow hot. He was suddenly very aware of the tiny throbs of her artery at her neck.

"Asked me?"

"If I asked you to hurt me...in my dream I asked you to hurt me."

"You're confusing physical pain with emotional pain, Elena. The bond between myself and a human…it's a very complex bond. I would never drink from you unless you wanted me to. In the most basic way, yes, that would be pain—my fangs in your neck. But from that pain can pleasure be derived. That kind of hurt is only painful if you let it be. It's an intricate and intimate depth of trust. "

"What about to those you killed? Was that pleasure for them?"

"…that isn't the same."

"Why?"

Damon sighed loudly and ran his hands over his face. Elena was still peering up at him, her arms still around his neck.

"Because I don't want them the way I want you," he said finally, turning his gaze to her.

Elena felt a flutter deep in her belly. No sooner than she felt it, did she close her mind to the emotion.

"I can't give you what you want," she whispered.

"I never asked you to."

And still, despite saying that, Damon dipped his face downward towards Elena and captured her lips with his. His hand slid slowly up her arm, leaving her skin prickled in its wake, and cupped her face. Her arms tightened around his neck and she leaned into him. It was warm, soft. His lips pressed to hers as if they belonged. His mouth transitioned up and he kissed the tip of her nose before pulling her from his lap and settling her beside him. He didn't look at her. He couldn't look at her. He turned his face and stood and without a word, moving to the adjoining room. Damon ran his tongue along his fangs, now protruding. He slid his hands through his hair and sat in a small chair, staring out of the porthole.

Elena's heart thudded in her chest. She pressed her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. She fell back on the bed, gasping softly. How did he always manage to do this to her? In brief moments, he helped her forget everything else.

"What now," she whispered allowed. "What happens now?"

* * *

Bulgaria was in an uproar.

The morning following Elena's kidnapping, all of Sofia was bustling with the news. Society was scandalized and aghast. The upper crust society denied that they had welcomed Count de la Salvatore into their homes. The women (and some men) denied that they had been enamored with him and his blue eyes. And the Princess…! To be kidnapped on the night of Prince Matthew's homecoming? She was surely dead as no ransom note had been left behind.

Prince Matthew was morose. He had been so furious when he'd burst into his wife's room. He wanted to punish her in the worst way. Though, his anger melted away after finding her room empty and with the evidence of a struggle. It wasn't that he missed her, per se, it was that he missed something of his being taken. He was like a miserable spoiled child with his toy taken from his grasp. He fiercely wanted her then. He wanted her home, in their bed and underneath him. Never mind the fact that he would be bored no sooner than she was home.

It had been two weeks since her disappearance and Matthew had just decided to announce a reward for her safe return.

"Two million leva," Tyler asked.

Matthew sat with his chin in his hand, a hard look in his eyes.

"He couldn't just vanish," Matthew said sourly. "He is a man you _notice_."

Tyler narrowed his eyes slightly.

"But two million?"

"You heard me."

"You want her back that badly?"

Matthew raised his head and then stood to full height and stared at Tyler.

"She, Lord Lockwood, is my wife and the mother of my children. She is also the Princess of a nation. No expense is too much for her safe return and the capture of a murderer. He killed your lover, in case it's escaped your notice."

They both knew it was a lie. Damon didn't murder Vicktoria. The threat was heavily veiled but duly noted.

Tyler bowed his head and nodded obediently.

"Announce the information," Matthew continued as he began to walk out of the room. "Also, send my masseur up to my bedchamber. I don't want to be disturbed."

Matthew slammed the door behind him before Tyler had a chance to respond.

* * *

Elena hugged her arms against her chest as she stared out into the dark blank of the ocean. Tomorrow morning, they would be in Toulon. But tonight? She just couldn't stand another moment in that cabin. Tonight, she needed to breathe the salt on the air. Tonight, she needed to get away. Elena had an intense bout of cabin fever and as soon as she left the stateroom, she felt a rush of relief. She had crept slowly, peeking in on Damon sleeping uncomfortably on a small settee. She was careful not to wake him.

Elena held herself as she stood in a foxed fur coat. Jeremy had purchased it along with a small wardrobe for her. She was surprised at the extensive good taste he had. Her hair was knotted at the top of her head and underneath her coat was a long dark nightgown. She walked towards the railing and closed her eyes.

"I knew it was you," a voice called out urgently.

Elena's eyes snapped open and she turned to an unfamiliar face of a man.

"Princess Elena," he said. "Is he here? Come with me!"

Elena took a step back and shook her head.

"I…"

The man extended his arm to her.

"Don't be afraid. I'll take you home."

Elena paused thoughtfully.

"Home?"

"Yes," he nodded. "I saw you the other day—when that man was entering your cabin. I thought it was you. Is that him? The Count?"

The man looked cautiously over his shoulder.

The Count…!

Elena took a step back.

"Je suis désolé…" Elena dumbly reverted to French.

The man narrowed his eyes with confusion. But before he could say another word, Damon breezed past the man and pulled Elena to him by her waist.

"Here you are," he said sweetly.

Elena blinked rapidly; her heart was beating so fast that she could feel it in her throat. Everything happened so quickly that her reaction was delayed. The man ran full force at Damon and the two tumbled to the ground. Elena watched them scuffle on the floor before she screamed. Her voice was muffled by the roar of the ocean and the rumble of the ship. It was like watching a silent film. She stood, immobile, as she saw Damon take the upper hand and punch the man in the jaw as he climbed on top of him. Even at this angle, she could see the contortion of facial structure. Damon was caught up in the moment, so perhaps that was why he didn't see the man desperately pull out his pocket knife and jab it upward. Elena screamed again, covering her mouth in horror. Damon stopped and looked down passed his chest as the man pulled the knife from Damon's belly and plunged it in again. Damon rolled back on his heels, off of the man, before sitting against the railing. His shirt was like a white canvas drenched with heavy scarlet paint.

The pain was acute. Damon's hand rested over his abdomen, trying to hold together the flesh and muscle that had been ripped apart. He raised his head slowly left and caught a glance of Elena's look of sheer horror. To his right, Elena's liberator advanced on him. He tried to move forward but cried out in as he felt his abdomen burn with intense pain.

Elena saw the man advance towards Damon and ice water flooded to her senses. The man grabbed a fist full of Damon's hair, yanking his face heavenward. He raised his knife and his eyes were already filled with glory…

There was a dark blank, a cold rush of panic.

Elena's body was pressed into the railing, her palms frozen outward. Her eyes were fixated downward as she watched as a body dropped like a stone and disappear into the frigid waters of the Mediterranean Sea. A muffled moan escaped her lips. She was suddenly very aware of her hands and watched as they slid down before resting them at her sides.

Elena turned down and looked at Damon.

"I killed him," she said.


	17. Adrenaline

Damon stood quickly, painfully, and grabbed a napkin from his pocket. He began wiping his blood clean from the floor. He looked for any traces of a foul play and turned to Elena.

"I killed him," she repeated.

Damon grabbed Elena's hand and led her towards their room. He pulled her roughly inside and peered outside the door before closing it behind them.

"You didn't kill him," he said as he limped towards the bar.

He pulled the stopper off the decanter of vodka with one hand while the other unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged it off and stared down at his gaping wound. He could feel it tingling as he took a deep drink.

"I grabbed his foot and threw him over," he said after he swallowed.

"You killed him?"

Elena was hugging herself. A small wisp of relief bloomed inside of her. She wasn't a murderer.

"Elena, he was going to kill me. What would you have me do? Invite him to breakfast?"

Elena stared at him and then stared at his stab wound. Her heart did a somersault and she rushed forward, putting her hand to his abdomen.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes, but the excitement helps."

"Excitement?" Elena looked up.

"You have it now. Your heart rate is elevated, your eyes are dilated and you're shaking. It's your body's way of coping. It's a rush. Don't you feel it?"

She felt it.

"You get a rush from killing someone?"

"I get a rush from surviving. I'm alive. You're alive."

Damon's animalistic tendencies took over so swiftly that he could barely register that he had pulled a stunned Elena into his arms. He grabbed her chin between his thumb and index finger and yanked her face up to him. His mouth descended over her. Elena's gasp was swallowed by his passion. His vodka tongue slid like velvet between her lips and stroked hers. She was still, very still, for the longest second of her life. And before she scarcely realized it herself, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. He pulled her fur coat down her arms and it fell, a fox curled at her feet.

_I should stop..._

Damon's hands slid from her shoulders downward. He felt the rise of shoulder blades as his palms slid lower and now across silk. They slid lower still and traveled along her backside, his fingers splayed out and pressing her forward and against him.

He was hard. She could feel the entire length of him beyond his trousers. When he pressed his hips forward to meet her pelvis, a moan escaped her lips. It was as if the dam that had been holding back her river of emotion had been dislodged. She moved forward as he moved backward towards the bed. They tumbled onto the down comforter, legs and arms wrapped around each other. Elena straddled Damon and cupped the side of his face as she kissed him. She never wanted to stop kissing him.

_It's too late to stop..._

Her nightgown had worked its way up to her thighs and Damon glided his hand along the warmth of her skin. His grabbed the satin of the gown on either side of her and pulled it up and off of her. Elena unbuttoned his pants and pulled his cock out and into her hands. He was cool, hard—like marble. She had a sudden deep ache to be filled. So without warning, she pressed herself down onto his entire length. She was dripping wet and almost too tight to bear. Damon pitched forward and grabbed her hip, hissing through his teeth.

"Elena…!"

This was different than that night in the garden. The need was different, the hunger was different, and the emotion was different. Elena slid up and down—burying his shaft deep inside and almost withdrawing him completely. Damon's hands were on her breasts, rolling her nipples in between his fingers. Elena pressed a hand on his chest and leaned forward. She was alternating between moans and breathless pants as her nails raked across his chest.

Damon growled and rolled her over, pinning her underneath him. He kissed her hard, their teeth gnashing against each other. He thrust harshly, fast. Elena pressed her cheek into the pillow, moaning with every lunge. She wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing him deeper inside of her.

"So…" Elena breathed, "So good…"

"So good," He echoed.

His face was pressed into her collarbone.

_Don't bite her, don't bite her…_

He pace increased twofold and his hand swung down and grabbed ahold of Elena's hip. She had a warmth that he himself did not. To be enveloped in it was intoxicating. He felt alive. It wasn't just because of her body temperature. It was her scent, her taste—it was the way she was now shutting her eyes and biting her lip—it was the way her thighs shook against his torso. She heightened every sensation in him and he wanted more. The world could be crumbling to pieces around them and they wouldn't have noticed.

_Lord in heaven, don't let him stop…_

It was as if he read her very thought because almost instantly, Damon grew very still. His hand ran over Elena's hair as he pressed his lips to hers. This kiss was different. It was passionate, soft, full. He kissed her neck, her shoulder. He withdrew from her slowly, achingly. His body slid down. His mouth traveled across her breast, sliding his tongue in his wake. He kissed a trail downward and across her flat stomach. Her breath was hitching with every centimeter that his lips lowered.

_Where is he going?_

Never in her life had Matthew done this for her. Her legs, with instinct, curled over his shoulders as his tongue slowly lapped at her delicate folds.

_Heaven._

Damon pressed his lips into her clit, kissing it softly. His tongue was slippery as it slid over it. He kept his pace languid, savoring her taste—savoring her reactions. Elena's hands tangled in Damon's hair. She pressed her hips forward slightly, encouragingly. He slid his hand over his cock, back and forth. He could please her all day. It was incredibly arousing.

_Make me…_

Make her what? She wanted him to make her feel the way he had before. She wanted that sheer moment of rapture that she had only experienced with him. When ladies gossiped about 'wifely duties,' they never mentioned anything like this. His tongue was a sin. A wonderful sin. It slid over and across, flicking over her clit with precise movements. _Faster…_

Her hands were twisting his hair into knots. Her eyes were wide, her mouth was dropped open.

_Faster…_

Her breath was coming in ragged, uneven. Her legs were beginning to shake uncontrollably. Warmth was settled in between of her legs and she knew she was on the verge of combusting with pleasure. Damon also knew that she was close to climax. He moved up swiftly, guiding himself back inside of her and thrust hard. He felt her walls tighten snugly around him and he felt a pleasurable vibration in his loins. Before Elena had even time to think, she felt her entire body tense and an overwhelming amount of ecstasy flooded her senses. She moaned, her head back against the pillow, her hands kneading into Damon's skin. The pulsating sensation of her orgasm began to trigger Damon's release and he pitched forward to bury his face into her collarbone. But before she he could, Elena grabbed his face.

"Look at me," she groaned in between intense throbs.

And so, as she came to orgasm, she watched his expression become awash with intense bliss. His features contorted into his vampiric mask and his eyes were heavy with passion. His mouth fell open as his fangs became completely unsheathed. He shut his eyes just as Elena ran her tongue across them. He gave a shuddered cry of release as he came in powerful gush after gush. He collapsed on top of her, kissing her shoulder. He lay heavy on her for several moments, trying to take control of his bearings. Finally, he rolled over and pulled her into his arms.

Elena settled her head against his shoulder and sighed softly through her lips. A man was dead because of her—a man that by all accounts was a Good Samaritan. And in the wake of his death, she had eagerly welcomed Damon into her bed. She was too tired and too pleased to think of the ramifications of what just happened.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow.


	18. Toulon

The sun bearing down on Toulon, France shone through the porthole of Damon and Elena's stateroom the following morning. Damon watched the flecks of dust float through the sun's stream of light before they disappeared into the shadows. He sat up in bed, his white bed sheet slipping down to his waist. He turned and looked down at Elena. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, her breasts in the spotlight of golden rays. Her face was pressed into the pillow with her hair in a mass of twisted vines behind her. His fingers slid over her neck, over her artery nestled there. He felt the rhythmic ticking of her pulse and he shivered. His fingers drove across her collarbone and traveled the outside curve of her breast. She stirred slightly, her lips puckering and then falling into a neutral line. She did not wake. Damon leaned forward and gently nipped her shoulder. She sighed sleepily and brought a lazy hand up and across Damon's back. He kissed her jaw lightly—tracing a curve to her chin and then up to her lips. Elena raised her other arm and laced her fingers together.

Her brow furrowed slightly at the brightness of the room before her eyes opened. As the blurry eyes of sleep wore off, she focused on Damon staring down at her. They stared at each other for several moments, saying nothing. Elena unlaced her fingers and with one hand, cupped the back of his neck. She breathed slow as her other hand slid forward and up to cup his face. Still he watched her, saying and doing nothing.

"You killed someone last night," She whispered as her eyes searched his.

Damon moved his body on top of hers. She spread her legs as he settled in between them. He was hard, throbbing. He pressed forward slightly, and she shut her eyes for an instant and she sucked in her breath. His eyes were calm and his expression unaltered.

"I'd do it again," He said plainly.

He moved his hips slightly, his cock straining at her entrance. Elena's fingers dig in to Damon's neck. She couldn't be coherent with him this close. She took a deep breath.

"Would you," she asked distractedly, not really needing an answer.

"Again and again," his tone had changed. "…and again."

He pushed himself forward and felt the silky warmth of Elena's sheath welcome him, surround him. Elena's mouth fell open, her body adjusting to his length. Her arms curved around his back and she moaned low in her throat. His head fell against her collarbone and one of his hands drifted underneath her backside, pressing her up into him. They clung, panting and filled with an unquenchable need. Damon's other arm slid underneath Elena's knee and bent it towards her chest. She tipped her mouth up and bit his lip and swallowed his kiss. Her fingernails were sharp knives digging into his skin. It was a delicious prickle of pain. His pace was urgent. He took deep, hungry thrusts. His shaft rubbed liberally against Elena's clit and soon her insides were swollen, ready to expand and contract with release. He dove deep inside of her, lubricating himself in her wetness. The bed creaked with the pressure of their lovemaking.

"Make me…" She whimpered and trailed off. She had said the same thing to herself last night, hadn't she?

"Make you?" He teased as he withdrew and then thrust deep again.

"Damon…" She breathed between gritted teeth, her head craned back. The pressure building inside of her was climbing so high that she knew that it was going to crash soon.

He leaned forward into her ear.

"Le petite mort," he breathed. "Orgasm. Climax. Then come, love. Come for me."

He pronounced every word slowly, deliberately. He felt the tremors of her body strengthen. She cried out, signaling her own release and it was then that he emptied himself inside of her. Damon's hand pressed into the wall, his fingers curling downward into his palm. He nearly lost his mind when he was with her. His cock throbbed intensely and he jerked with sensitivity. He gave a final shuddered moan before pausing and then withdrawing himself from her.

Not a minute later, their attention was diverted towards their door as it suddenly opened wide. Jeremy's stood in the doorframe and looked towards the nearest wall. Elena gasped, pulling the sheet over her head.

"We need to get moving. She's meeting us."

Damon looked at Jeremy for a moment too long before nodding.

"We'll be down shortly."

Elena heard the door shut and she threw the sheet back.

"You gave him a key?"

"For emergencies."

"Well, where was he last night?"

"He was playing poker with third class."

"Well, splendid how much help that did us."

Elena rolled her eyes and moved to get out of bed. Damon grabbed her forearm and dragged her back and into his arms. His mouth slanted over hers possessively. Elena tried to pull back but he held her fast.

_I have heavy chains_, he told her silently.

"This isn't over," he said aloud.

Elena lifted her head and removed Damon's hands from her arm and waist. She pulled herself out of bed and walked towards her suitcase. She pulled out a crème colored corset.

"Who are we meeting?" She changed the subject, looking at the boning.

Damon said nothing as he stood and silently came behind her. He curved his arm under hers and around her stomach. He pulled her back against his chest and kissed the side of her neck while his hand slid between her legs.

"This isn't over," he repeated again.

Elena closed her eyes and sagged against him as he fingers slid over her clit. _Back and forth—fast and then slower_. Then suddenly she was standing alone as he walked towards his suitcase, licking his fingers, his predatory eyes on her. She narrowed her eyes slightly and yanked out a high collar lace blouse. This was like a dream, a ridiculous dream. Had she really run away from Bulgaria? No, she reminded herself with a sardonic smile. She was kidnapped. She scoffed to herself as she stared at her corset and paused. She swore to herself and turned to Damon who was fastening his trousers.

Damon looked towards Elena, and then to her garment. He rolled his eyes and advanced towards her. Soon his fingers were moving deftly, expertly lacing her stays.

"Tighter," she chided purposely.

Damon's jaw tightened as he grabbed the strings and yanked harshly. Elena's breath in took sharply. Her hand flew to her midsection.

"Better," he asked sweetly.

Elena snorted and said nothing. After he was done, she moved to a porcelain basin and brushed her teeth, watching Damon as he preened in front of the mirror. He really was quite odious. Her mind suddenly flashed to his head settled in between her legs and she felt herself grow hot. She tossed it from her mind and slid on her blouse and then her skirt. She took a wide brimmed, feather trimmed hat and put it atop her head. She looked at herself in a gilded mirror. It shrouded her face enough. She turned her face to different angles while Damon watched with an arched brow. She turned towards him and he gave her his arm. She linked elbows with him and walked out of the room and out into the French Day.

No sooner than several feet out of their cabin, did they saw a woman speaking frantically to the Captain of the ship.

"My husband," she cried.

The Captain's arms were raised in defense and he shook his head as he spoke quietly.

The woman held the hand of a small toddler who watched Damon and Elena as they passed by. He was the miniature version of the man they met the night before. They didn't have to listen to know what was happening. Elena didn't want to listen. She moved faster.

"…anything that we can," The Captain reassured her.

Elena closed her eyes and blocked out all noise as she sucked in a generous gulp of air. They were now walking down the ramp and onto French ground. Elena felt a surge in her heart. She was far from home; farther than she had been in a long time. And why? Why was she running?

Damon caught sight of Jeremy beside a large black horse-drawn coach. He tensed as he his arm held Elena's, leading her straight ahead. He stared at the door of the carriage and imagined what was beyond it. He tried to think of the right words. Elena nodded pleasantly to Jeremy who reacted in kind. He opened the door and gestured for her to sit inside. If Damon could take a deep breath, now would be the most apt time.

Elena moved inside of the carriage and sat in a seat to the left. As soon as she had sat down, she noticed the woman sitting opposite of her. The woman was beautiful, chiseled from ivory. Her hair was dark—as dark as her eyes and piled atop her head. She wore a peacock blue dress with a lovely pleated train. She had a generous neckline, accenting her ample breasts that were highlighted more so with a diamond necklace. She stared at Elena strangely, blinking slowly, as if she was suddenly tired. Damon settled inside beside the woman and across from Elena, the door closing behind him.

Elena looked from Damon to the woman.

"Were you planning on introducing me," Elena asked lightly.

Her stomach began to knot suddenly and her hands slowly balled into fists.

Damon opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.

"I'm surprised he hasn't mentioned me," the woman smiled tightly. "My name is Isobel."

She extended her cold hand to Elena. Elena took her hand and nodded but before she could speak the woman continued.

"Countess Isobel de la Salvatore. I am his wife."


	19. Chateau

Wife.

If Elena was disturbed by this fact, she didn't show it. Damon watched her as she smiled warmly to Isobel, calmly placing her hands across her lap.

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

She was seething. Her blood was ice in her veins and it took every ounce of her good breeding to keep from an outburst. His wife? She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to throw herself under the carriage wheels. Instead she sat with strange smile on her lips, staring at her hands.

Isobel watched Elena with careful eyes. The smile on her lips was almost sarcastic. She turned towards Damon.

"My dear," she said sweetly. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "How was your trip?"

Damon ignored her, watching Elena. Isobel slid her hand into his palm as if she wasn't aware of a thing. She uncrossed her feet at her ankles and re-crossed them.

"I imagine it was quite an adventure," she continued sweetly. "Seeing as that you have stowed away a royal guest for us—The Princess of Bulgaria."

Elena looked up and looked towards Damon, alarmed. Damon sat stone faced, staring ahead at nothing.

"Oh don't look to him, dear," Isobel smiled. "We don't keep secrets in our home."

Elena felt like she could breathe fire. She bit the inside of her cheek and a metallic tang spread across her tongue. Blood. Damon turned towards her then. His eyes connected with hers and then drifted to her mouth. She watched his eyes dilate significantly and she felt herself turn scarlet before looking away.

"You must be starving," Isobel stared at Elena, though she was speaking to Damon. "I know I am."

Her eyes had taken on a predatory gleam and Elena glanced down and saw that her hand was gripping Damon's quite tightly. Elena felt a pang of alarm.

"That's enough," Damon snapped. "More than enough."

Isobel blinked and her face was suddenly blank, expressionless.

Nothing was said for a long moment. The carriage rocked back and forth and they listened to the hustle and bustle beyond them. A fisherman was advertising his fish. A beggar was asking for coins. Jeremy was yelling for people to give way. There were all kinds of excitement beyond the coach. Though inside, it was quiet and awkward.

"Where are we going," Elena finally asked.

"I have a chateau just outside of town. Chateau Talaud. We should be there shortly."

'Shortly' was an overstatement. The trio rocked in uncomfortable silence for over an hour. As the sun grew higher and the temperature rose, so did Elena's temperament. With every passing minute, her anger rose. Wife! It was madness. She had betrayed her husband. She abandoned her children. She was gallivanting in France with her lover and his wife! She was two seconds from screaming when the carriage rocked to a stop. Elena gave a soft sigh of relief as the door opened. Jeremy extended his hand to Elena and she was all too eager to take it and remover herself from the confines of the coach.

Chateau Talaud was a lovely estate near the French Rivera and outside of Provence. Owned by the Marquis Grille L'Estoublen, it took little coercion to have the deed handed over into Damon's hands. The air was sweet—a generously sized vineyard and green countryside surrounded the estate. It was a magnificent three story vision with a Spanish tiled terracotta roof with a brick and rough-iron archyway at the foot of the lawn. The lawn was a carpet of emerald and surrounded with large lush trees. In front of the chateau, just beyond the archway and beside the driveway path, were two swimming pools. It was no Vrana to be sure, but it was quite beautiful. Above the French entry doors was a small balcony covered in vines. Elena stared upward, admiring the stonework above the balcony doors as she held her hat atop her head.

Just then, Damon grabbed Elena by her elbow and steered her indoors.

"Let me show you to your room," Damon said blandly.

Elena pulled her arm at her side but followed him up the stairs. At the summit, he turned right and turned the gilded knob on a pale, intricately carved door.

He opened it and gestured for Elena inside. Elena eyed him as she passed into the room. The room was dusky blue, wide. It had crown molding along the wall and ceiling with intricate plaster casts of filigree. The windows were as long as the ceiling and covered with maroon and blue curtains. The bed was large and inviting. A tester with curtains sat above the head of it. The bed was covered in sheets of cornflower blue with heavy feather pillows swathed in rich tasseled fabrics. Across the bed was a fireplace with a pale cobalt mantle.

"La Chambre Bleue. The Blue Room," he said, looking around the room.

No sooner had he gotten the words out of his mouth, did Elena's palm connect with his face. The slap sounded like the crack of a whip and Damon's eyes blazed instantly.

"You deceitful cad," Elena whispered furiously.

Damon bit his lip and nodded angrily. He turned and slammed the door behind them both. He grabbed Elena by the shoulders and yanked her to him.

"It's a marriage of convenience," He kept his tone neutral.

Elena twisted in his grip to no avail.

"Is that why she was on you like an animal in heat?"

"Elena," Damon warned.

"Why am I here," Elena shook her head. "Why? Do you think I am going to pretend this is my home—that I am going to willingly live under the house of my lover and his wife? You've gone mad. I don't even know why I've allowed this charade to go on for so long. It's madness. You misrepresented yourself. You're-"

"Don't you dare take on pious airs with me," Damon spat. "You're not some virgin from Eden. You're married too, madam."

Elena stopped struggling almost immediately. Damon closed his eyes a long second and sighed.

"Look," he began.

"No," Elena said stiffly. "You've made your point. I'm married. I've been bedded by my husband. And I let John…I know that I'm not pure."

"I'm sorry," Damon confessed.

"I didn't ask for this, you know? I didn't ask for you to come into my life. My existence, however pathetic, fit into perfect little puzzle pieces. Then you came and you tore everything apart. I don't know what goes where anymore. So what is the point, Damon? You've successfully taken me from Bulgaria. A man was murdered last night because of me. Now what? What do we do now?"

"I don't know."

Elena's hands came up and cupped the side of Damon's face.

"Do you love her," Elena asked.

Damon's eyes were hard, true.

"No."

"Do you love me," She barely whispered.

Damon paused, his hands drifting across her hips.

"No," he said finally.

Elena's eyes were glassy and she blinked back. Her smile was calm—just as her voice.

"Well, I don't love you either."

She pressed herself forward slowly and pushed Damon back into the door. Her mouth was soft, hungry. Her teeth sunk gently against his bottom lip as her hands drifted up into his hair. Her body pressed against his as her mouth slanted over lips—her tongue curling with his. No sooner had the kiss started did it end. Elena pushed herself back, her fingers pressed into her lips. She turned her back to Damon.

"I'd like to be alone, please," she asked.

When she turned around again, she found that she was alone.

* * *

Damon walked across the hall, passed the stairs, and paused outside his bedroom door. He took a proverbial breath and walked into La Chambre Rouge—The Red Room. It was a large, two room suite. Its windows faced south towards the vineyard, sunlight streaming through the window panes. The main room was the bedroom with an iron, four poster bed. It was enveloped in a heavy comforter of deep maroon. The walls were the color of custard and the crown molding was a pale grey. The tapestries were deep red and the room was filled with antique furniture in cherry wood. Back and to the left of the bed was a door. Beyond the door was a quaint receiving room with plush furniture and art accents along the wall.

Isobel was barely perched on the bed, a glass of brandy in her hand. Her eyes were hard and she took a deep drink, eyeing Damon as he entered the room.

"When Jeremy said she looked like Katherine, I didn't think she would look identical," Her voice was soft yet shrill.

"Stop, Bel."

"And you dare parade her in front of me like a holy relic?"

"I couldn't leave her there."

"This is Mystic Falls all over again, isn't it?"

Damon stared at Isobel a long moment before turning, taking a glass of the nightstand. He lifted his decanter of brandy and filled the glass to the brim.

"You've seduced her already," Isobel spoke to his back. "I've watched her eyes and I can see your naked reflection in them."

"Stop!"

Damon slammed the glass down, bourbon spilling onto his hand and at his feet. He turned back to Isobel. He walked towards her and grabbed her by the neck, pulling her close. She gasped, her eyes dilating with surprise. He could smell the brandy on her tongue.

"Why did I marry you," he asked.

Isobel stared at him, her eyes wide. Damon shook her, knocking the glass from her hands.

"Answer me," He said between gritted teeth.

"Because my name," Isobel spilled out. "My land, my connections. Because…" She trailed off.

**"**_Etes_**-**_vous francais_**,"** Damon asked, his voice hard.

"Oui," She said softly.

"Yes," Damon said, "You are French. And why else?"

"Because I'm a witch," She rasped.

Damon pushed her from his grip.

"When I met you, you were nothing but a chambermaid to me—Katherine's chambermaid. I spared you out of pity and married you because if was convenient. Nothing more, nothing less."

Isobel turned her face, tears ebbing at the corner of her lids. Damon relented, sighing. Damon moved forward, cupping her face into his hand. She pressed her face into his palm like a cat, her eyes closed.

"Why do you do this to me, dear? I'm fond of you, Isobel. You've been true to me. But you and I both know that I don't love you."

Isobel pushed Damon's hands away.

"You see how long it takes for her to betray you, too. Let's see if I'll be there to pick up the pieces this time."

* * *

_1864. Mystic Falls._

_"You're…one of them. Oh, Damon, no…"_

_"I can't help what I am, Kath. I didn't ask to be this way."_

_Damon watched the moonlight dance through Katherine's hair as she shook her head. She stood with her back to a large cypress, her hand shaking as it gripped a stake. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, exposing her pale neck. Damon watched her artery throb, beckoning him. He closed his eyes._

_"I love you," He said quietly._

_Her laugh was shrill, manic._

_"Love? You haven't the capacity. You're a monster, a soulless demon. You are a murderer, Damon Salvatore. What do you possibly know of love?"_

_Damon ached from his head to his toes. Everything had turned so suddenly wrong. They had run into the dark forest—to play, to make love. But his face! Never before had he hated so passionately what he was. One minute she was kissing him, touching him and the next? She was screaming, running from a contorted face that he couldn't control. So this was the price of loving a human. He could see her disgust, her sudden and passionate hatred. His defeat felt so absolute. Damon fell to his knees, looking up at her. _

_"What would you have me do? I've done everything for you."_

_"It means nothing," Her voice was soft and still he winced._

_"Katherine…"_

_Her eyes suddenly lit in a strange way. He had never seen her look so calculating._

_"Are there others," she asked._

_No!_

_"Yes."_

_"Who? Damon, they will kill me when they find out you told me. You have to tell me! You have to protect me!"_

_I can't tell you._

_"Jeremy. Isobel."_

_Katherine's hand flew to her throat._

_"Isobel! My chambermaid? Oh God, she could murder me in my sleep. Why haven't you foreseen this?"_

_"We won't hurt you!"_

_"They will. Unless we stop them."_

_"We?"_

_"The Council. As acting leader, it's my duty to tell them. It's my duty to see that they are taken care of."_

_Damon groaned._

_"I can't let you do that."_

_Katherine cleared the space between them, her walk so swiftly and utterly confident._

_"Are you going to kill me?"_

_"No. I wouldn't. I couldn't. Katherine, you know me."_

_"No, I don't think I really do."_

_She fell to her knees in front of him._

_"The man I loved doesn't exist," her words were soft; her eyes were filled with tears. _

_He knew her hand was shaking, the stake curled in her palm. It would be so easy to stop her._

_"I exist," Damon whispered, shutting his eyes. "And I love you."_

_He felt her warm palm against his cheek, cradling it like a lover would. He felt her body turn and he stiffened, waiting for the inevitable. If killing him would make her happy then so be it. There was a sudden whoosh in the air, then the subsequent sound of a thick slap. Damon opened his eyes, his gaze was caught by a red rose blooming from her chest. Her eyes were wide and her mouth had fallen open, blood trickling down her lip. Damon's un-beating heart contracted underneath his ribs and he looked down at her chest again. It was not a rose, no. It was a hand, clutching her heart in a vice grip. It all happened so fast that he scarcely had a chance to blink. It disappeared inside of her and she fell back. Damon screamed falling forward onto her._

_Jeremy stood quietly, listening to Damon's cry of pain as it echoed through the forest. He knelt down, his hand on Damon's shoulder. His fingers drifted down his arm and took his hand. He placed Katherine's heart in his palm. It was warm, bloody and twitching. Damon looked up at Jeremy, feeling helpless for the first time in his life. He couldn't even turn her now, he thought as he held her heart._

_"I'm sorry, my dear friend," Jeremy said softly. "I couldn't allow her to do that."_

Damon woke with a start. He sat up, having fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. He shuddered almost violently. He hadn't dreamed of that night in months. Yet, at the same time, it never quite left him. His life in Mystic Falls marked a period of vulnerability that he had come to loathe. He stared heavenward at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling before running his hand over his face. Never again, he had told himself. He had lied to Katherine that night. Isobel wasn't a vampire. Why he had told her that, he couldn't quite say. Perhaps it was an unconscious desire that he had for the chambermaid. She was beautiful—too beautiful to be wrangled into a life of servitude. He knew she was a witch, he could feel her power. He knew that having a witch at his disposal would be to his advantage. She had comforted him after Katherine's mysterious death. His cheek had been pressed against her warm breasts, her hands comforting him along his back and through his hair. He cried—it was real, his pain was real. Though somewhere in between his grief and her comfort lay a predatory yearning that he could not quench. So he killed Isobel at the foot of Katherine's bed. He was sloppy, careless. Her screams were heard throughout the neighborhood. He stayed in the room until Isobel turned into a vampire. Then he bent her over the bed that he had shared with a night with Katherine, and fucked her. The room was splattered in blood when Jeremy found them lounging in a blood haze amongst the soiled bed sheets. They escaped with the clothes on their backs, narrowly missing a lynch mob that had come for their heads. America had become too dangerous. It was their good fortune that Isobel came from a well to do family in France. She had run away with a lover—the relationship had ended in disaster and she had been too much of a coward to face her family. Though, now a vampire, it didn't matter. She was on a hell bent mission to return to France. She slaughtered her entire family with a swift and cunning hand that even Damon had to be impressed.

Isobel was crazy, unpredictable. In another life, perhaps he could have allowed himself to love her the way she wanted. He could not. He would not. She was too petulant, too impulsive to wrangle into a sense of normalcy. He wasn't averse to bedding her, though. He took her however and whenever he wanted. She was an exceedingly skilled lover. But not even her best bedroom tricks could latch to Damon forever. They married simply so Isobel could inherit her family's fortune and build a respectable name for them. In that time, it had been increasingly difficult for Damon to take lovers as his wife was dangerously jealous. She killed swift and she killed often. Damon still could not find it in himself to banish her from him. She was his pet, no matter how often she snapped her jaws.

He hadn't wanted to bring Elena to Chateau Talaud but he hadn't, under the circumstances, any other choice. If he had been truthful to himself, he would have admitted that he wanted to turn Elena from the moment he laid eyes on her. He had, on some level, wanted to punish her for things she had not done. He had wanted to seduce her, debase her, crush her simply because she looked so much like Katherine. He hadn't expected Elena to crawl in his mind and rattle his thoughts. She was not like Katherine at all. She was angry, intense and passionate in a way that he couldn't articulate. While Katherine was like a calm brook on a spring day, Elena was a dangerous river that splashed through jagged rocks. She could drown him. Never again, didn't he say? And yet here he was, spellbound by the Princess of Bulgaria. He confessed to her face that he didn't love her. He couldn't quite assess whether that statement was true or not. He didn't want to.


	20. Right

His nightmare had woken him in the early morning and he could sense that Elena was awake and pacing the floor of her room above. Down the hall, Isobel slept like the dead.

Elena's feet walked back and forth across the floor. The sun peaked into her windows, her alarm clock to the new day. She wore a sheer peignoir and nothing else. She thought of Matthew, of her children. Most of all, she thought of Damon and of the conversation that had the day before. He called it a marriage of convenience. She, although, found it rather inconvenient. Her thoughts were hypocritical and despite her stubbornness, she allowed herself to think about this. Wasn't she also in a marriage of convenience? Matthew wanted her body at times, but he never wanted anything more.

Matthew…

He was a distant memory. She remembered a time when she lit up at the sight of him. His selfish ways and his cold demeanor sliced any fond emotion she had for him. Her children weren't the product of love; they were the product of obligation. Opium had become her lover. Elena's hand curled over her heart. Even thinking of it made her heart quicken. She missed the burn in her throat, the emptiness in her mind. She shuddered. Damon had become her lover in the place of opium. He also made her heart quicken. But he also made her angry. She sighed, running her hand through her hair. She stopped in her tracks, suddenly aware of another presence. Elena turned towards the door to see Damon watching her.

"Why didn't you tell me about her?" The words bubbled out before she could stop herself.

Damon walked into the room, closing the door behind him. He laced his hands behind his back as he began to pace—his eyes downcast.

"I don't know."

"You've had so much time…"

"Elena," Damon sighed.

"It's two months of deception," Her tone was vulnerable.

"When should I have said it? After I kissed you? Before we…before that night in the garden?"

"Why not when we met? Our lives may have gone so different. I might not have had to run."

Damon's eyes softened at the memory.

"On the day that I met you, you had been in the garden. You were barefoot when you received me and your hair was wild. You were pale from the cold but your nose was as pink as your flowers…I wasn't thinking of my wife when we met. All I could think about was how much I wanted to touch you."

Elena felt herself go scarlet.

"But you weren't seeing me…"

Damon's lips pursed into a thin line and he walked across the room and settled into a sofa that backed into the wall beside the hearth.

"This is about Katherine." He said flatly.

Elena walked passed him and stood beside the window. She pressed her hip into the window pane and stared absently at the front lawn.

"Come here," he demanded.

Elena turned and caught his intense gaze. She paused before walking towards him. She stood in front of him. She watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat as his eyes drifted across her. He had seen her naked and ever since he had first bedded her, she had become more and more comfortable with her nudity. She didn't need a thick robe in the spring and the peignoir left nothing to the imagination. He took her hand and pulled her into his lap, kissing her temple.

"Katherine was…a woman I loved almost 35 years ago. Yes, we did meet on that day in Vrana but I had been watching you for longer than that." Elena turned her head towards him slightly, her ear pressed close to his mouth.

"When we met, I knew almost instantly that you were not the same person. You spoke different, you moved different. I didn't want to believe it at first but I accepted it. When I kissed you, it was you who I was thinking of. I wasn't thinking of her. When I touched you, you were all that was in my mind. Not her. Please understand that everything I feel…" He paused, "Everything I feel I feel for you alone."

_What do you feel? Tell me…!_

"What…happened to her," she asked instead.

"She's dead."

Elena let that sink in for a long moment. It felt wrong to be jealous of a dead woman.

"How?"

"She was killed," He said, not providing details.

Elena's shoulders drooped further. She had been jealous of a murdered woman. It was even worse. But…

"Did you…" Her voice faltered.

"I didn't kill her, Elena. But it was my fault."

"Why?"

"She found out what I was and she," He paused, "She was disgusted with me. She wanted me dead. Her hand was poised with a stake over my heart and I would have let her do it but…Jeremy stopped her."

Elena didn't have to ask but the implication was clear.

"Oh," She said softly.

They lapsed into silence. Damon stroked Elena's arm back and forth, lost in thought.

"Will I be next?"

Damon turned his face towards Elena.

"No," His voice was strong. "Don't think that."

"Your…_wife _doesn't seem to be too fond of me."

"My _wife_ is a thorn in my side. But she can also be loyal and pleasant. It takes time to see her true character. When you get to know her-"

Elena slid off of his lap and stood, turning towards him slowly.

"Get to know her," She raised her voice, "Do you honestly think that I am going to spark a friendship with that woman?"

Damon stood, raising his head heavenward with annoyance.

"Elena…!"

"What, do you think I am going to ask for her expertise on how to please you in bed?" She spat.

Damon grabbed her so quick that her head spun. His mouth was hard, insistent, and pressed against hers. Elena pulled back, gasping. She reared back to slap him though Damon intercepted her hand, her fingers lightly grazing his chin. Elena cried out in frustration as Damon pinned her arm to her side.

"Control yourself," He said as his lips moved over hers again.

Elena grabbed his lip in between her teeth and bit down. A metallic tang coated her tongue and as soon as it did, she felt a heightened sense of ferocity and her breath in took harshly. Damon growled low and pulled her back at shoulder length. Elena's head bobbed back, her hair falling around her face. She moved to strike him again and instead they struggled to the floor.

Elena felt the coolness of the marble through her peignoir. It had fallen off her shoulder, exposing her skin. She saw Damon's contorted face but it did not faze her. She was too caught up in her anger to care. She tried to push him off, her feet pushing against the floor. She made no leeway. His mouth was on her collarbone, his tongue sliding up her neck. Her entire body shivered and she alternated from pushing him to pulling him against her. Damon's hands dove inside the robe, yanking her tie open. She gasped against the touch of his cool skin and found herself yanking at his shirt while he unclasped his trousers. Soon he was in her palm, hardening and growing. She was panting in between breathy moans.

He was desperate to be inside of her. He spread her legs roughly and buried his cock deep—moaning as she did. He gritted his teeth and slid inside and nearly out of her.

"Heaven," he barely whispered.

Outside of the door, Isobel was a statue. Her face was drawn into hard lines and her mouth was set firm. Her fist was curled around her dark wrapper—a significant contrast to her alabaster skin. She listened to the muffled moans of Elena and her husband, her heart burning with anger and jealousy. She could hear the dull slap of flesh on flesh and she curled her fingers into her palm. Her nails pressed bloody crescents into her skin. There was a level of abandon to Damon's tone that she had never heard before. It cut her like a knife. The deep, passionate cries from Elena told her that she, too, was lost in pleasure. She wanted to tear into the room and break her little neck. But she couldn't. Her feet were planted at the door until she listened to Damon's moans turn guttural. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and she knew that he was close to climaxing. She shut her eyes in disgust and walked away, their groans becoming farther and farther away until she heard nothing more.

She walked downstairs and out of the front door. She paused in the frame, blinking against the morning sun. Even with her ring, she detested the sun as if its power could crush her at any moment. It was too bright and too hot for her to ever feel comfortable. Isobel's feet were bare and caked with dirt when she burst into a separate cottage along the property.

Jeremy was lying in bed, his arm propped behind his head, as Isobel entered his cottage. His eyes were calm, his tone easy.

"Isobel," he nodded slightly.

"Tell me everything you know about her."

Jeremy moved his arm from underneath his head and stretched, saying nothing for a long moment.

"You're going to get in over your head. You know that?"

"Tell me everything," She repeated again. Her face softened and she allowed tears to well into her eyes. "Please, Jeremy. I would do it for you."

"Fine. It won't do you any good, though. He cares for her. More than he cares for you."

Isobel winced and settled herself into a wicker chair.

"Start at the beginning."

* * *

They laid on the floor—silent and drenched in sweat. Damon's hand was pressed in between Elena's legs, feeling her body throb with the aftershocks of orgasm. He smiled, satisfied, and kissed her on the mouth…on the neck…on the shoulder. The sunlight cast a stream onto them, giving their bodies a warm glow. Elena's fingers traced Damon's jaw, watching him.

"Admit that you care for me," She said dreamily, shutting her eyes.

Damon's gaze darted up swiftly.

"I do," He said automatically.

Elena opened her eyes and stared into twin pools of blue—searching for sincerity.

"I never said I didn't care for you, Elena. I do. I have for a long time. Do you think I would have gone through all this trouble if I hadn't?"

Elena's arms slid over his neck, her fingers curling in his hair at the nape of his neck.

"I care for you, too," She whispered.

Damon leaned down, kissing the tip of her nose and then her lips.

"I know," He whispered back.

He stood and pulled Elena off of the floor, her robe in tatters.

"I'll have my servants draw you a bath," He murmured, her earlobe in between his teeth.

"Mmmm…"

"I'll have clothes and instructions set out for you," His voice vibrated pleasantly in her ear.

"Instructions? I'm taking instructions now?" She was distracted, if mildly offended.

"You'll like it," He kissed her lobe and pulled back, watching her.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, his eyes open—watching her expression.

"What," she laughed nervously, suddenly shy under his scrutiny.

Damon smiled, suddenly guarded.

"Nothing. Take a bath. Meet me downstairs in an hour."

Elena grabbed Damon by the shoulders and turned his back to her, guiding him towards the door.

She closed it behind her and closed her eyes.

It felt…_right_.

Didn't it?


	21. Bliss

Elena soaked in her bath until the water had begun to cool and her fingers began to wrinkle. She smelled like roses and vanilla and it pleased her. She walked back into her bedroom and stared at the dress that was laid out for her. Beside the dress was a note:

_Wear this. Meet me downstairs at noon sharp. _

Elena felt her heart flutter deep in her chest. She was intrigued. The dress was a crème colored, hand-embroidered off the shoulder lace tea dress. It was covered in lovely lace appliqués, chain stitch embroidery and fancy open work. The skirt of the dress skimmed against the hips and flared out below the hipline before gathering into a beautiful train. It was achingly lovely. She had to give Damon his due-he had exquisite taste in fashion. Elena slowly put it on and slid on a pair of slippers. She grabbed a boar bristled brush that sat on a nearby dresser and ran it through her hair until it dried and crackled. She carefully settled a pearl comb in her hair. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and pinched her cheeks until they were rosy. Then, she grabbed a matching lace parasol that was tilted beside the door and walked out of the room.

Elena descended the staircase and quickly discovered that Damon was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a large envelope of parchment at tacked into the wall. Elena tugged on the envelope and found a pulled out a note and heavy laced blindfold.

_Put this on._

Elena smiled, biting her lip.

"And what if I say no," She asked aloud to no response.

She pulled the blindfold over her eyes and tied a bow behind her head. Almost instantly, she felt the cool kiss of Damon's lips at the back of her neck. Elena nearly purred, pressing herself back. Damon smiled to himself and leaned into her ear. His arm went around her waist.

"I knew you wouldn't say no."

Elena playfully scoffed as Damon scooped her into his arms in one fell swoop. She gasped and automatically wrapped her arms around his neck, still holding her parasol.

"Damon!"

She felt his weight shift as he walked to what she assumed was the front door. Her eyes saw red under her lids as they stood in the warm sunshine. The sound of Collared Pratincoles warbled in the air. There was a sudden rush of wind in Elena's ears. A strange feeling of weightlessness took hold and so she gripped her arms tighter around Damon. She opened her mouth to cry out but the wind swallowed all of her sound. Then as soon as it began, the feeling disappeared. Elena yanked at her blindfold, pulling it down her face and around her neck. Damon slid Elena out of his arms and set her on her feet.

They stood in a clearing, surrounded on all sides by the woody vines of grape vineyard.

There beside them, centered in the clearing was a multitude of blankets and pillows and strategically placed platters filled with fruits and nuts and sweets. There were flowers bursting out from the ground and standing proudly in the sun. Elena let out a sound of pleasure and turned towards Damon.

"That time we lay in the garden…" He drifted off.

He didn't have to say it because he knew that she felt the same that day. There had been an undeniable current of electricity that flickered between them that afternoon. That flicker had only intensified from then on. He pulled her down onto the blankets and settled her back against his chest as he reclined back. He took Elena's parsol and positioned it over their faces.

Elena exhaled a deep breath of air and shut her eyes. Damon's arms curved around her stomach and he felt her muscles relax. He closed his eyes as well, listening to the wind rustle softly through the vines. The sun was bright and warmed their skin. Elena's hand drifted over his arm again and again, marveling at its warmth. She was so used to his skin being cool like a stone in darkness. Everything felt so far away, as if her troubles did not exist.

"Tell me about your life," She asked dreamily.

Damon opened his eyes, his mouth slanting slightly.

"What do you want to know?"

Elena thought before she answered.

"Where are you from?"

Damon paused, his eyes affixing to an object in the distance.

"I was born in Napoli—Naples," He said slowly.

"I knew you were Italian," She murmured, pressing her head into his chest as if he were a pillow.

"If I were alive today," He paused, struggling to remember, "I would be a wrinkled man…a fisherman like my father and his father before him. My mother she…" He put his hand over Elena, stilling her movement, "died when I was very young. She died giving birth to my brother. He lived..."

"A brother?" Elena opened her eyes, and tilted her head back for a moment to look at him.

Damon furrowed his brow.

"His…name was Stefan. Stefan Salvatore."

"Stefan? Isn't that the name of your stallion?"

Damon smiled slowly, as if he hadn't realized the coincidence.

"It is, isn't it? Huh…" He lapsed into silence at that.

Elena leaned forward and grabbed a leather wine skin and took a nearby glass. Water poured out into the cup and she frowned, expecting wine. She decided to overlook it and took a dainty sip and settled back against Damon.

"How were you turned?" She asked softly, finally.

She felt Damon tense behind her—she imagined his insides, soft moments ago, swiftly turning rigid. He said nothing and after a while, she felt him beginning to relax. She didn't want to press and resigned herself to the fact that he wasn't going to tell her. So when he began to speak, she was surprised.

"I was twenty…four? Twenty five? My brother and I, we were aboard the," He paused, his eyes lost in thought, "Bellezza. We had a cargo of…I can't remember. Spices? I think it was spices. In any case, we had caught a storm early on and once it cleared, we anchored off the island of Alicudi. It was…a very small island. We drank wine and at some point in the night, we heard horrible screams coming off of the beach."

Damon's grip around Elena's hand grew tight.

"So, heroes that we were, we drunkenly took a boat ashore. That's_ nearly_ the last thing I remember. When I awoke—I was no longer a man. I was...I became what I am now. A vampire. Alaric—my maker. We were together for twenty years…" He drifted off, uncomfortable.

"What happened to your brother?"

Damon shook his head once.

"That was another life," Damon said tiredly, "He was my brother no longer. I left his body on the beach…I buried him in the sand. It was the least I could do. I recognized that. I didn't mourn for him the way a brother should. I regret that I can't. But from the moment of my rebirth, there has always been a disconnection from my former life. I don't…think about it. If I try, I get confused. There are so many missing pieces and it troubles me to try and recover them. It isn't worth the effort to me. I never saw them again. I never saw my family, I mean."

Elena turned in his arms, pressing her chest against his and wrapped her arms around his neck. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

"We don't have to talk about it anymore," She whispered and kissed him again.

"Thank you," He heard himself say, suddenly relieved.

He took a strawberry from a nearby basket and pressed it against Elena's lips. His eyes turned feral as he watched her mouth open, her lips wrapping around the fruit before sinking her teeth into it. His chest rose and fell with instinct, as if he could still sigh. He kissed her forehead and pulled her back against his chest, her head tucking under his chin. There was a heavy level of contentment inside Damon that he couldn't remember ever having before.

They alternated between napping and talking softly for the next several hours. It was well into the afternoon when Damon decided to move onto their next activity.

"Do you swim," He asked, as he lifted Elena into his arms.

"In water?"

"No, in custard," Damon laughed, "Yes in water, my little Princess."

"Mother used to take me to the beach…" Elena said thoughtfully.

"Oh no," Damon shook his head, "I'm not talking about putting a toe in the ocean. I'm talking about swimming through the water like you belong there."

"Well then no," Elena said through narrowed eyes.

He kissed her forehead and looked down at the blindfold in his hand.

"Do you want to wear this," He asked, dangling the lace in front of her.

Elena stared at the blindfold and squared her shoulders.

"If you don't need them, neither do I," She hoped she sounded resolute.

Damon looked skeptical, but without warning, he shot into the air with Elena in his secure embrace. Elena watched with alternate emotions of fascination and horror as they skimmed through the air like birds—flying above the vineyard. It was an extraordinary view and it struck her heart in a peculiar way. They cut through the sky quickly and soon, they landed near the twin swimming pools beyond the wrought-iron archway. Elena swayed slightly as she found her land legs and stared at Damon in amazement.

"That was absolutely wonderful," She breathed.

"Mmhmm," Damon smirked and began to peel off his clothes.

Elena's eyes widened and looked around to see if anyone was watching.

"What are you doing?"

Damon smirked as he stood naked before diving head first into the pool. The water splashed back and rained on Elena who hopped back and squealed.

She stood at the edge of the pool and watched Damon as he glided under the water and burst up at the opposite side of the pool. He was graceful and it was beautiful to watch him. Elena took another cautionary look around the estate and began to peel off her tea dress. Damon watched her, his eyes on every hook and every button as it came undone. Her skin was pale cinnamon, and smooth as silk. Just watching her stirred a swift current of lust to his loins. She was unabashed as she sat on the ledge of the pool, dipping her legs into the cool water. She gasped at the chill and gave herself a moment to adjust. Damon swam towards her. His hands slid up her thighs and he pulled her into the pool, sliding her against himself. Elena's arms went snugly around him. It felt wonderful. Her legs went around Damon's waist and she pressed herself against his already hardening cock. Her mouth pressed forward and against his, her tongue demanding his attention.

From behind the curtains of her bedroom, Isobel stood stoic. She watched them make love. She watched Elena clumsily learn to swim. She watched them laugh and kiss. It sickened her.

"Soon," She whispered.


	22. Wire

Dinner the following night was an awkward affair.

The table was covered in delicious dishes—anything and everything Elena could desire. There was fish cooked in oil, roasted duck, smoked pheasant, vegetables in cream sauce, and desserts that Elena had never even heard of. She, although, was the only one with a human appetite.

Damon drank a glass of wine and spoke pleasantries with Jeremy who was seated to his right.

Elena, was seated to his left, was giving gracious attention to a lovely slice of cake that was set before her. Called a _Reine de Saba,_ it was a dense chocolate-almond cake topped with crème anglaise. In short, it was heaven in every forkful.

Isobel sat across from Damon, a large glass of wine was settled into her hand. Her expression was cool, protected.

"So," She cut through the conversation, "Princess Elena, tell us about your children."

Elena's fork stopped in midair and she looked up towards Isobel. Her heart contracted and her she was filled with a sudden melancholia. Her appetite vanished in an instant and she quietly placed her fork beside her plate.

"Bel," Damon warned softly.

Isobel batted her lashes innocently.

"I'm just trying to make conversation, love," She said sweetly before turning back to Elena. "Isn't every mother proud to boast of her children?"

Elena blinked rapidly for a moment.

"I…uh," Elena began, "Yes, I have children."

Isobel nodded almost mockingly.

"I have three—two sons and a daughter."

"Ah, you have little tribe. How sweet."

"They are…" Elena drifted off and stared at her plate.

Damon stared at Isobel through slits in his eyes before turning careful attention to Elena. He placed his hand over hers, his thumb running over hers.

Isobel placed her hand over her heart.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this a sore subject?"

Elena shook her head and took a deep breath as she raised her chin. She had been feeling queasy all day and Isobel's baiting was making things all the more worse.

"No," She said clearly. "It isn't. They're names are Matthew, Kiril, and Eudoxia. They are the only good and pure thing to come from my marriage. I am very proud of them."

"Ah," Isobel purred before propping up her arm and resting her chin in her palm. "Is that why you left them behind in Sofia? Because you were proud?"

Elena's jaw twitched and she shook her head.

"No. They were left in the care of people who adore them. I know I wasn't the best mother and so my absence is a blessing on them. Do you know what it's like to create something so innocent and beautiful—to have someone so defenseless depend on you?"

Isobel blinked, taken aback slightly.

"No…"

"Ah," Elena purred back before lifting her fork. "I concluded as much. You don't seem have a nurturing quality about you."

Elena pressed her fork into the spongy cake, lifted to her lips and took a bite with relish. Isobel's face grew taut and she said nothing and instead drank her wine.

Elena playfully kicked her foot against Damon's leg. She stole a quick glance and caught his smirk and subsequent wink in her direction.

_'Try harder,' Elena thought. 'Try harder.'_

_

* * *

_

Two days later, Damon found Elena in the garden just as the sun was reaching overhead for high noon.

She was wearing a pale purple muslin dress—it was long, flowing, and elegant with its Empire style waistline. Her hair fell down her back in gentle waves. She looked very much like a garden nymph as she stood with a basket of flowers in her grip and her feet bare in the grass.

"I didn't feel you get out of bed," Damon said as he walked towards her.

His hands slid around her waist and he pulled her against his chest. Elena reached up on the tip of her toes and gave Damon a quick peck on the lips, smiling.

"I can be stealthy too, sir," She said tauntingly before turning towards a rose bush. She snipped a pink bloom and put it in her basket.

"So I was thinking," Damon began, as he watched her hips sway as tended to the flowers.

"Hmmm?"

"…that we'd go to Sarrians—to the market."

Elena turned back towards Damon.

"You want to take me on an excursion beyond the estate?" She tried to suppress a grin.

"Yes, I want to take you _on an excursion beyond the estate_."

In an instant, he had Elena in his embrace and his mouth sought hers with zeal. He then set her on her feet and patted her backside.

"Go put on some shoes, I'll have Jeremy ready the carriage."

Elena took a deep breath of air, taking in the scent of the lilies in her hand.

The market was quaint and bustling despite the small size of the town. Vendors sold flowers, herbs, livestock, produce and many other things to they hadn't dreamed of. Elena gave a sack full of apples for Damon to hold while she looked at a large basket of ripened cherries.

Damon slung the sack over his shoulder and watched Elena. She was so natural amongst the locals that you'd have never guessed that she was royalty. Her smile was genuine and her movements were graceful. He watched as the vendor gave her cherries to sample. Even from a distance, he could discern its scent as her teeth sunk into the berry—red juice slipping indecorously down her chin. Elena laughed as dismissed her unladylike behavior with a sweet laugh as she blotted her face apologetically with a handkerchief.

There was fullness in Damon's chest that he couldn't identify. It hummed, almost like a heartbeat, and shot up his throat causing him to smile. Damon found that he didn't mind the feeling. It was pleasing. Though, before he could discern anything further, he suddenly felt his senses go on the alert. All of the sounds of the market fell away and his eyes fell on a group of men standing past Elena near a livestock vendor. He focused on them, his gaze suddenly downward, and amplified his auditory senses.

"…you've lost your damn mind," Said one man.

"No," Said another, "No, he's right—it looks _just_ like her…"

"What in the hell would the Princess be doing in Sarrians?"

"I don't know and I don't care…wasn't there a reward?" Said the third man.

Damon blinked and in an instant, he was at Elena's side. He tossed francs to the vendor and grabbed Elena by her elbow, pulling her away. Elena barely had a chance to grab her sack of cherries before she was forced into a fast pace beside Damon.

"Damon," She exclaimed, annoyed.

"Don't turn around," He said through gritted teeth.

"What," She asked, turning around behind herself out of instinct.

Her eyes connected with a group of men that were watching her. Her head shot back towards the front, her eyes widening. Damon swore quietly.

"What's happening?"

"Nothing. Get in the carriage."

Elena moved to sit on top of the carriage with Damon but he grabbed her wrist painfully and swung open the carriage door.

"Get _in_ the damn carriage," He said, his jaw tightening.

Elena said nothing, alarmed at his intensity, and slipped into the darkness of the stagecoach.

Damon didn't look at the group of men again but he could feel their gazes burning into the back of his neck and they disappeared down the road.

* * *

By the time that they reached Taulaud, Damon had had a chance to get his bearings. His assessed the situation again and told himself that he didn't have to worry. His better judgment knew that that was a lie. He hopped off the carriage and opened the door for Elena. He reached his hand inside and curled his hand over hers, leading her out. He pulled her into his arms and let his shoulders drop.

"I'm sorry," He said, his lips muffled into her hair.

Elena wrapped her hands around his waist.

"It's okay," She said shakily. "Do you…think they recognized me?"

"I don't know."

Elena said nothing, her grip tightening around his waist. What if they found her? A great fear bloomed in her chest and it was the first time that she realized that she didn't want to leave. She didn't want to go home. She wanted to be with Damon, where ever he was.

"Actually, I do know." He corrected himself.

Elena looked up, her dark eyes locked with his blue.

"They weren't positive…but they knew you looked like the Princess of Bulgaria. They mentioned something about a reward…"

Elena blinked and looked downward. It was as if the air had been sucked from her chest. Recognized! After a moment, the last part of Damon's words sunk in. She looked up.

"Reward?"

Damon shrugged.

"Looks like your husband misses you," He said, distracted.

Elena shook her head, incredulous.

"No…I know Matty."

"_Matty_," Damon raised his brow.

"Hush," Elena's brow creased, "If there is a reward he has two reasons for doing it—one, for appearance. And the other…he doesn't like anyone taking anything that is his. He's spoiled."

"I suppose he hasn't been informed that you aren't his. You're mine."

Elena's lips slowly curved into a smile. She leaned her head back and raised herself on her toes, kissing Damon.

"So what will you have me do?"

"We wait. I need to confer with Jeremy and Isobel. Let's go inside."

After settling Elena inside the Chateau, he gave word to his servants to begin dinner without him. He wandered behind the house and walked a beaten path to Jeremy's cottage.

Jeremy lounged in a leather chair, his feet propped up on the matching ottoman. With a knife in hand, he slowly whittled at piece of wood. Damon picked up a nearby wooden rook. He inspected in, twirling it in his fingers.

"You're getting better," He said, handing it back to Jeremy.

Jeremy nodded slowly, his eyes on the piece of wood now in his palm.

"Where's Isobel," He said lazily.

Damon shrugged and settled into a chair beside him.

"She's on her way. I sent her a mental order."

Jeremy's eyes flickered towards the door and back to his work.

"I'd keep my eye on her," His tone was mild.

Damon leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Is that right?"

"Yep."

Damon nodded.

"Is she stepping out of line?"

"No," Jeremy said, setting down his knife and wooden pieces. "But she sure is dancing on the edge of it."

Damon yawned and looked towards the door.

"I wish I could hate her." Damon heard himself say.

Jeremy scoffed, his eyes closed.

"You probably would if it wasn't for…"

His voice trailed off and Damon smirked to himself. They could sense that Isobel was nearby. Not a moment later, she was standing in the doorway.

Isobel was wearing a bright yellow dress with white eyeleted trim. She pulled the hat from her head and her dark hair came tumbling down like a chocolate waterfall. Her mouth was liberally painted in fresh blood that left a drying stream down her neck and pooling into a large stain on her yellow bodice—turning it orange. The scent of death flooded the senses of Damon and Jeremy and she watched, amused, as their eyes turned feral. Jeremy gripped the arm of his chair and looked away, his fangs extending. Damon stared at her blood stained mouth and felt his teeth unsheathe. Isobel flicked her tongue across her teeth and over her lips. Her mind flashed away for a moment…

_Lying on the beach in Corsica…_

_Three separate pairs of arms and legs tangled around another, drunk on blood. Jeremy. Damon. And she. A haze so thick that she was barely coherent—who was she kissing? It didn't matter. Who was inside of her? It didn't matter. Pain, pleasure...every sensation mingled into one and culminated into intense orgasm after orgasm... _

Isobel sat herself on Jeremy's lap and turned to Damon.

Damon watched Jeremy's face grow strained, his fingers digging into the upholstery. Damon was aware of their ongoing liaison. It didn't trouble him. Isobel was beautiful and Jeremy had needs. Though, he was taken aback at Isobel's boldness to flaunt it in front of him. It was so unlike her. And Jeremy's troubled face betrayed him too clearly that it was evident it was more than a physical relationship to him. Isobel sunk her teeth into Jeremy's earlobe. He flinched and turned his face to Isobel, his annoyance was plain. Isobel shrunk back slightly and turned back to Damon.

"Yes?"

"We may have an issue," Damon began.

Jeremy was on the alert.

"What happened?"

"I took Elena to the market in Sarrians..."

"Of all the idiotic things to do," Isobel spat, jumping up from Jeremy's lap.

"Isobel," Jeremy warned.

Isobel waved her hand at Jeremy and stood in front of Damon, staring down at him.

"Let me guess—someone spotted her."

Jeremy's eyes flickered from Isobel to Damon.

"Did someone recognize her," He asked.

Damon shrugged.

"Maybe."

Isobel broke into peals of laughter.

"So soon we will have a mob of vigilantes running towards Talaud wanted to rescue the Bulgarian damsel in distress!"

Damon pushed Isobel back and stood, walking towards the window.

"I said maybe. It might be best if we, Elena and I, disappear for a while."

Isobel's expression took on a pained look that was soon smothered with rage.

"You will not!"

Damon turned to Isobel in an instant and grabbed her wrist, yanking her to him. Jeremy stood quickly but kept his ground.

"I don't care how you talk to Jeremy—what he allows you to do to him is between you both. But you will watch yourself when you speak to me. I am not beneath you and I sure as hell am not your equal." His tone was quiet, angry.

Isobel's eyes were glittered with tears.

"So you're going to run away with your lover now? Forget your obligations as Master of Talaud? How long will you leave for?"

"You know I'll come back. _I_ _have to come back_. So why are you getting upset?"

"She's ruining everything," Isobel shook her head. "I'm sick of it."

She rushed passed Damon and became a blur of motion as she left the cottage. Damon and Jeremy shared a look before running after her.

Elena sat in bed with a book when she heard a loud thud of the entry door slamming below her. Before she could think of anything more, her door flung open. Isobel flew into the room and grabbed Elena by her neck and slammed her into the wall. Her eyes were dark grey and her features had changed prominently.

"I'm so sick of you," She said through her fangs. "You have to go."

Before Elena could even interpret Isobel's words, she was on the floor gasping for air while Jeremy pinned Isobel to the wall. Isobel's scream was like an animal and she struggled just the same. Jeremy held her by her arms as she pressed her body forward, staring daggers at Elena. Out of nowhere came Damon, whose hang swung across Isobel's face so strongly that it would have killed a mortal person.

Isobel was instantly silenced.

"I'll chain you to the goddamn wall if you don't control yourself," Damon roared.

"Damon! What's going on," Elena grabbed his hand.

"You," Isobel said evenly. "You are what's going on. You've brought nothing but trouble over our heads and danger at our heels, _Katherine_."

Elena froze in place.

"I'm not…"

"Oh, no. But you are. You might as well be. She was my Lady and by God, you are her exact replica. Never mind what he's told you—you will always be the replacement Katherine, the broken copy."

Jeremy spoke quietly in Isobel's ear, trying to quell her anger.

"No," She yanked her face back from Jeremy, not looking at him. "She needs to hear it! Don't you dare think you are anything special. Oh—do you think you are the first person he fucked in that swimming pool? Do you think you are anything new? You aren't! You're just another mouth and another pair of busy hands and another cunt to fill…"

The sound of the slap that Elena delivered to Isobel's cheek rendered them all speechless. Damon wrapped his arms across Elena's chest, pulling her back against his. Elena clutched her stinging hang to her chest.

"Don't you dare," Elena breathed shakily, "Presume to know me. Don't presume to know what Damon and I share."

Isobel licked the corner of her mouth where a small drop of blood had begun to form.

"If I didn't have my hands contained," Isobel said calmly, "I'd twist off your pretty little head."

"You wouldn't dare," Elena smiled.

Jeremy begun to drag Isobel from the room and Elena followed them into the hallway.

"Oh, I would. I'd bathe in your blood and have Damon lick it off," She laughed as Jeremy pulled her down the stairs. "And we both know how good Damon is at licking, _mon ami_."

Elena watched, shaking with anger, as Isobel yanked her arms free from Jeremy and gave him a scathing look.

"I'm done," She shouted, walking out of the house, "She's not worth it."

* * *

Matthew sat at the head of the dinner table, watching his children.

He watched as Anna held Eudoxia in her arms, staring at the baby strangely, looking for something he could not find.

"Your majesty," Tyler called behind him.

Matthew turned towards Tyler.

"We just recieved word over the wire-there may have been a sighting in France."

Matthew stayed quiet for a moment, thinking.

His eyes were hard when they flickered back towards Tyler.

"Look into it."


	23. The Gift

Elena slammed the door behind her so hard that it rattled the glass settled in the window pane. She paced back and forth and flirted with the idea of fashioning a stake to crush into Isobel's chest. She was driving her insane! Something had to give.

"Elena…"

Elena turned, her expression blazing with anger, at Damon who stood at the door.

"Close the door," She said through gritted teeth. "Stay in or get the hell out."

Damon's face tightened with anticipation as moved into the room, shutting it behind his back.

"It's her or me, Damon. I can't live like this anymore. Don't you see what she is trying to do?"

Damon's shoulders sagged.

"What am I supposed to do? Just throw her out on the street?"

"Yes," Elena said shortly.

"Elena, I've known her for over 30 years…I am her maker. I can't just…"

"Can't or won't?"

"What's the difference?"

"You damn well know."

"It's not as simple as you are making it out to be."

"You've seen with your own eyes and listened with your own ears—she loathes me. She is jealous of me, of us. She is in love with you! Don't act like you don't know."

"I do know," He said quietly.

"Oh," Elena laughed, "So you keep her around to validate yourself? Lovely, just lovely."

"No, it's nothing like you say…let me explain…"

"Then how is it? Hmm? Answer me this, Damon—am I a prisoner in this house?"

"No…"

"Then I can go?"

"No."

Elena laughed, hard and cruel.

"You want your way but you won't let me have mine. I absolutely abhor you right now."

"You're being ridiculous."

A large Venetian vase soared towards Damon's head and if it wasn't for his quick reflex, it would have shattered against his skull.

"Elena! What the hell!"

Elena reached for a candlestick and moved to throw it. Damon's hand clamped around hers and moved to stop her. Elena struck out at him with her free hand which he then grabbed.

"I can't stand this," Her tone was shrill.

Damon pushed her back towards the bed. Her fingers slid free and raked across his neck, leaving shallow cuts in their wake. Damon roared with frustration and bent Elena's arm behind her back. Elena cried out and tried to bite him. Her breathing was uneven and her face was red with anger. Damon caught her mouth with his and crushed his lips to hers. He shoved her back onto the bed and ripped at her dress, tearing it at the seams—the tiny beads rained onto the floor. Elena slapped him and pulled apart his shirt. Her fingers unclasped his trousers, and her palm curved around his cock. She slid her hands up and down, feeling him grow with each second that passed. His hands roughly spread her legs apart and he grabbed his hard length in his hand, pushing her hand away. He shoved himself inside of her, his fingers digging into her hip. Elena cried out, her back arching up from the bed. Her fingers curled into Damon's shoulder and her head fell back.

"Damon…God…"

His pace was unforgiving and Elena felt a mingled feeling of pleasure and pain. He withdrew himself almost completely before slamming himself back, his skin slapping against hers. Elena yelped, her hand grabbing a fist full of his hair. Again, he pulled himself out before thrusting back in and deep. He repeated this over and over until he felt Elena's muscles tighten around his shaft. Her climax came hard, fast and she was nearly crying with intense pleasure as he continued to propel himself into her. He then pulled himself out and threw Elena onto her stomach like a ragdoll. He spread her legs again and reached his hand in between her legs. He slid the wetness from her slit to her ass and before Elena realized what was happening; his cock invaded her in a way that she had never experienced before. Elena sucked in her breath and felt an acute slice of pain. Her hand bent back behind her and him and cupped the back of his neck.

"Christ in heaven…" She heard herself say.

Damon's fingers slid underneath her, his fingers strumming incredibly fast over her clit. Her ass was so tight and Damon fought all instinct as he gritted his teeth, now extended. Her body clasped him so incredibly and he knew that he was on the threshold of orgasm.

The vein on her neck was prominent and its throbbing visibly teased him. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand resisting for a moment longer. He moaned like an animal and his mouth descended like a lion towards the neck of a lamb. In the last moment, his hand shot out, covering her neck. His fangs sliced through his own skin and vein and he shuddered with pain while simultaneously reaching the pinnacle of his orgasm while stimulating Elena into another. His cock pulsated again and again, emptying himself inside of her.

Damon pushed himself back, his blood dripping down his hand and onto her back. Elena was alternating between moans and gasps, lost in the haze of pleasure. Damon covered his bloody hand and sprung from the bed, shaking. He grabbed his robe and slung it on.

"I'll be right back," He managed to say in a shuddered breath before nearly sprinting from the room.

Elena looked up slowly.

"Damon?"

But he was gone.

Damon ran outside of the chateau, hell bent on finding prey—any prey to quench his thirst for blood.

* * *

After getting her bearings, Elena washed herself from the basin in her room. There was blood on the back of her neck but no wound. She stared at the blood strained cloth, confused. After a time, Damon had still not returned. She wandered into the hallway outside of the room.

"Damon," She whispered harshly.

She was met with the response of utter silence. Elena held her wrapper together, her hand clutched just below her neck. Her eyes flickered down the staircase and she noticed that the room there was aglow. Curiosity caught hold and Elena drifted softly down the stairs. The entire ground floor was lit from the flame of candles. The wicks sat on the window sill, the tables, and the chairs. Elena's heart did a heavy flip in her chest as she looked around. She noticed a trail of candles curving towards the kitchen and she let out a dreamy sigh as she followed the path.

Isobel sat at the head of the formal dining table. Her arms were rested on the table, palms up. She was dressed beautifully in a heavy blue silk dress with laced trim. The neckline of the dress plunged significantly, exposing the ample curvature of her breasts. Isobel watched the expectant look on Elena's face give way to confusion when she caught sight of her.

Elena stopped cold in the archway of the dining room.

"He's out feeding," Isobel's voice was like warm butter. "A vampire like Damon can only handle so much…blood tease."

Elena's hand stayed at her neck, her knuckles pale.

"I have a present for you," Isobel said after a beat of silence.

Her smile was wide, jarring. Elena's eyes fell to a square of raised velvet in between Isobel's arms. She suddenly felt sick and took a step back.

"I don't…"

"I insist," Isobel said, taking the corner of the velvet in between her manicured index and forefinger.

This was wrong. Completely wrong. Whatever was underneath that velvet sheet, Elena knew that it would do nothing but bring her harm in the worst way. And yet, even as she took another step back, her eyes were glued to Isobel's hand. She wanted to run and hide. She wanted Damon.

"I know all about you," Isobel continued. "I know more than you think I know. And as a woman, I can recognize the despite what you say, that there is still hurt behind your eyes. I apologize for my previous outburst I was frustrated. I'm sure you can understand. I can make it better. Don't you want that? We can be friends, _Princess Elena_."

Isobel's smile was almost sincere if not for the coldness ebbing from her gaze.

"I don't…" Elena faltered again. Could she run? Should she? Curiosity kept her from moving.

"I can help you," Isobel's voice turned to silk.

She lifted the corner of the sheet, pulling it away and gently tossed it over her shoulder.

"Ahhh," She said lovingly. "Isn't that better? Don't you feel better already?"

Terror that Elena had never known bloomed so suddenly in her breast that she felt that she was going to faint. She took a shaky step forward and her hand fell from her neck. Terror gave way to an unspeakably frightening elation. She couldn't take her eyes off of it. She was hypnotized.

Isobel smiled a genuine smile and she pulled her arms off of the table.

"It's a gift," She said softly.

Elena was now standing at the opposite side of the long table. Her eyes were wide, fixated.

There before her, like a crowned jewel, was a large black rock of opium.


	24. Decisions

Elena's throat was completely dry. Words were stuck in her throat and she was completely silent.

She hadn't noticed that Isobel had drifted from her seat until she felt her back pressed against her. Isobel rested her chin on Elena's shoulder, her chest pressed into her back. Her arms circled her body and held her snugly.

"It must be like reuniting with an old lover," Isobel said softly.

Her fingers ran down Elena's arm, leaving goose flesh in their wake. She laced her fingers through Elena's. Elena barely reacted, her eyes fixated like a prowling cat on its prey. The opium was calling to her.

"Imagine," Isobel said softly, "that you are lying in a beautiful bed. You have a spout in between your lips and you take a deep breath…"

Elena held her breath without realizing.

"…and you feel the smoke coat the back of your throat and burn its way down into your lungs…Mmmm…"

A small whimper escaped Elena's lips and Isobel smiled.

"And then you breathe out, the smoke curling around your body like a fog. You blink and you feel your body beginning to hum…"

"Stop," Elena managed to whisper.

"The hum vibrates through your entire body. Soon, that sensation gives way to nothing. Absolutely nothing. You're draped in a blanket of emptiness and you are drifting into a large expanse of nothingness. You are speck of dust floating through a breeze. You are naught…and it's perfection."

Isobel's hand unclasped with Elena's and slid up her arm before resting below her neck. Her fingers slid downward, tracing lazy patterns in on her collarbone. Her teeth dragged across the arch of her ear.

"Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

Elena pushed back away from the table, causing Isobel to stumble back. She swung her face towards her, their faces inches apart, as she pulled closed her robe.

"What are you doing, Isobel?"

"Opening your eyes."

Elena looked behind herself quickly to check on the opium, almost as if making sure it was still there.

"To what?"

"To who you are," Isobel said slowly, almost as if she found it strange to say so.

"Damon knows who I am," Elena said quickly.

"Oh no," Isobel wagged her finger, drifting back to the table.

She climbed on top of it and took the opium into her hand.

"This is who you are," she extended her hand, the opium glittering in her palm. "You're hard, dark, empty."

Elena felt like she had been punched in the gut. It was as if Isobel had crawled inside the far corner of her mind and pulled out her greatest fear. All she could do was shake her head, mute.

"Damon is a passionate man, my sweet. But he is a vampire first and always. Do you know how you torture him with your games? Don't you realize that his greatest wish is to kill you?"

"Kill me," Elena barely whispered.

"He wants your blood—it's what all vampires want. Beyond that—here we have this," Isobel rolled the rock in between her fingers. "Do you honestly think you can love him more than you love this? This is what you crave, is it not? You want this inside you more than Damon. You aren't worthy of the affection he wastes on you. He's the one that is dead and he is more alive than you will ever be. You are death—you are an abysmal nothingness that clings to him like a parasite."

Elena blinked, tears snaking down her cheeks and dripping off of her chin.

_Damon…_

"I can make him happy," Isobel said softly, almost pleading. "I love him more than you will ever will. I'd kill for him. I have killed for him. And I would die for him. Can you say the same? I knew what he was before he turned me. I could sense it. I sacrificed my life to spend eternity with him. He owns my body, my soul. I wake up every morning for him. And you," she tossed the rock towards Elena who caught it and pulled her hand against her chest. "You wake up every morning for _that_. Let him go, Elena. Go back to Bulgaria. Go back to Sofia, to your family and subjects. Go…anywhere else. Just let him go. Leave us be. We were fine before you came into our lives."

Elena breathing came in fast and hard. Her palm warmed the opium that she held in her grasp. She looked up at Isobel who sat serenely on the table.

"He'd find me." She barely whispered.

"Not if I help you."

Elena stared at Isobel, as if seeing her for the first time. Her love for Damon was overwhelming. Its strength slithered through the cracks of Elena's insecurities. She had no way to compete…

"Fine…" She said finally before giving way to sobs.

An hour later, Damon walked into the Chateau. He was flushed, satisfied. He wiped his mouth for any traces of blood and stood in the living room. He paused. It was quiet, deliberately quiet. Damon was suddenly on the alert and looked around. He felt a tug of panic.

"Elena," he called loudly and walked quickly towards the stairs.

He took them two at a time and turned right at the hallway, bursting into her bedroom.

Elena sat on the bed and jumped visibly.

"Damon!"

Damon relaxed his shoulders.

"Are you okay," He asked, walking towards her.

Elena blinked, saying nothing. As he walked closer, he saw that he face was red and her swollen eyes. Something was undeniably wrong.

"What-"

Before he could ask anything more, Elena rushed towards him, throwing her arms around his neck. His hands automatically encircled her tiny frame. It was then that he felt a sharp pain in his neck followed by the pressure of Elena's kiss against his lips. He blinked, suddenly heavy and realized that everything was moving slowly. He was staring at the ceiling, twitching and moaning in pain. Had he fallen? He must have fallen. Elena loomed over him, her eyes filled with fresh tears.

"I'm so sorry," Her voice echoed.

He wanted to ask her what she was sorry for but he was couldn't move—he could barely think. A thick sheet of darkness took hold then and he fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Two days later. May 3rd.**

Damon awoke slowly, painfully. The sunlight streaming through a slit in the curtains was more than enough to make his eyes squint with sensitivity. He was acutely aware of a presence in the room and after a moment, he was able to focus on it.

"Jeremy is cross with me," Isobel said aloud.

Damon turned to see that Isobel was sitting on the cushioned bench that was pressed into the foot of the bed. Her back was turned to him. He listened to the click of her knitting needles.

"What happened? Where is Elena," Damon tried to sit up.

"I took his ring," Isobel said, not acknowledging his question. "So he was quarantined in the cottage for the entire length of the daylight hours."

"What?"

Isobel turned her head to the side, her chin pressed against her shoulder, almost looking at him but not quite.

"She asked for my help."

"She? Elena?" Damon pulled himself forward, towards Isobel. "Where is she?"

"Far away. It's strange—I thought she would have gone back to Bulgaria, but no. It's like she wanted to be a nobody."

"Isobel," Damon warned, exhausted.

Isobel's shoulders dropped.

"She's gone," She said without turning. "She poisoned you with vervain and took her leave."

"You let her escape?"

"Escape? Damon, please," She chided. "You and I both know that if push came to shove, you would have let her leave if she asked. She was no prisoner therefore she couldn't escape. She simply left."

Damon stared at the back of Isobel's head, his fists beginning to clench.

"You helped her," Damon asked levelly.

Isobel paused, looking up from her knitting and staring into a blank space in front of her.

"Yes," She said softly.

Damon lurched forward with renewed strength, grabbing Isobel by her neck. He pulled her over the iron frame of the bed and pressed her into the mattress. Damon was on top of her, his grip exceedingly strong. Isobel didn't struggle, her face turning paler than her usual pallor. Her grey eyes darkened and her fangs extended. She did not move.

"I could kill you," Damon spat.

"She," Isobel struggled, "Left you a note."

Damon released his grip on Isobel's neck immediately.

"Where," He said through gritted teeth.

Isobel lifted a weak arm, her finger extended towards the mantle of the fireplace. Damon followed her finger and saw a folded parchment propped there. He leapt from the bed and began to read.

_Dearest Damon,_

_I know that you must be confused with the turn of events and I am profoundly sorry. After you left, I had time to reflect on our argument. I had told you to choose Isobel or me. I realize now how unfair it was for me to give you such an ultimatum and for that I am sorry. My presence here is a danger to you and a danger to others and I cannot allow it to go on further. You and I will never be able to be happy. We are two different species. My motivations and my passions are twisted and confusing and it breaks my heart to think that I have brought them upon you. I remove myself from this house, from your life. I apologize for the vervain—I had no other means of incapacitating you. Do not look me as I do not want to be found. For a brief moment, you brought happiness into my life and for that, I thank you. Please do not take your anger and frustration out on Isobel—she loves you quite deeply._

_All my affection,_

_Princess Elena of Bulgaria_

Damon crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it to the floor. He turned back to Isobel, who was still lying in bed. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched him curiously.

"Did you have a hand in this," He asked, advancing towards the bed.

"What, you don't think she could reach that conclusion on her own? Do you think I had a hand in it?" She asked.

Damon stood at the side of the bed, staring down at Isobel. She rested herself back into the bed and stared up at Damon, studying him.

"I know you did," His voice was hard. "Do you think that you can take me for a fool? How did she know to use vervain?"

Isobel shook her head, a small smile tugging on the edge of her lips.

"I could kill you," He whispered again shakily.

"You've said that already…but you won't. You can't," She whispered back. "You won't even send me away."

"It was my foolishness that allowed me to turn you into a vampire. An immortal witch, you're a fucking curse on me."

Isobel's eyes widened and she said nothing.

"You've bound yourself to me with your magic and I may have indulged you for this long but no longer."

"You can't break it. And you can't make me break it."

"No, but I could have Jeremy kill you. That would break it, wouldn't it?"

Isobel closed her eyes and clasped her hands across her stomach, thinking.

"He wouldn't do it…" Her tone wasn't very convincing.

"You forget how much he loves me," Damon said quietly as he leaned forward. His fingers slid across her cheek and to her neck, curling them there tightly. "If I asked him, he wouldn't question my request. He is loyal to _me_."

"My spell has kept you lassoed to me for this long, my sweet. I may not be able to make you love me, but you've come back home and back into my bed time and time again. You desire me even when you despise me. You cannot kill me. You cannot harm me. You cannot cast me out of your home—OUR home. How do you know that I haven't foreseen it coming to this? Do it, Damon. See what consequences are brought onto your head—and onto _her_ head. Jeremy may not be bound to me by magic but he is bound by something stronger—his love. Just try it and watch your entire world turn upside down."

Damon's grip released instantly and he narrowed his eyes.

"You're bluffing."

"Perhaps. But are you willing to test your theory?"

Damon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, weighing his options. He truly did think she was lying, but was it worth the risk if Elena was harmed? He walked across the room and ran his hand over his face. He turned back towards the bed to Isobel, who was now sitting up.

"I love her, Bel…" He said softly.

Isobel sat up. Her face grew pale and she looked as if someone had thrust a stake into her heart. Her hand curled over her own neck and her mouth grew slack. Her chest heaved—as if she was breathing heavily. A short, sickening moan escaped her lips before her hand covered her mouth. She then put her hand into her lap.

"What did you say to me," She barely managed to whisper.

"I love her. I don't know why I love her or how…but I do. It isn't because she looks like Katherine. Honestly—I can't see how I was ever mistaken before. They are so different. Elena is…hot-headed and foolish but she has a good heart. She is caring and giving and attentive. I love these things about her. She has given me something I haven't experienced for so long—she's given me my humanity, Isobel. I love her."

Damon walked towards Isobel and sat on the bed. He took her limp hand in his grasp and stared into her grey eyes.

"I know you love me. In my own way, I love you. I am fond of you, Bel, but not in the same way. You are too…" He trailed off. "It's Elena for me—it will always be Elena."

Isobel looked down into her lap and slid her hand away from Damon.

"Paris," She whispered as tears began to snake down her cheeks.

"Paris?"

"That's all I know. Get out."

He ran from the room before she had a chance to blink.


	25. Paris

**May 4th.**

Elena stared up at the red windmill of the Parisian cabaret, The Moulin Rouge. She needed work—the francs given to her by Isobel would only last so long. After speaking with a gentleman on a train regarding respectable employment, he suggested that she go to "Le Premier Palais des Femmes" in the Pigalle neighborhood. It wasn't until she walked into the establishment, did she realize the reason for the man's lecherous laugh as she had thanked him.

She stood half hypnotized and half horrified as women cavorted on stage in dazzlingly scandalous outfits that glittered in the candlelight. The colors of the ladies' dresses were garish, shimmering with multicolored beading. She watched as they tantalized the audience by removing gloves and slowly raising their dresses. Elena began to move backward and bumped into the chest of a large man.

"I'm sorry," She began to say.

She watched as his money scattered to the floor. He was kind yet occupied with the show behind Elena. She watched him gather his francs and walking deep into the belly of the cabaret. Her eyes followed him, watching the money in his sweaty palm. Her eyes flickered back up towards the dancers on stage. It was then that a ridiculous notion flittered into Elena's head. She gave a half laugh at the absurdity before giving way to a deep pause. Her hand slid into her pocket, her fingers gliding over her opium rock. She took a deep breath and stopped a girl to ask to speak to the owner of the establishment, Joseph Oller.

* * *

**May 5th. **

Isobel stood in the doorway of Chateau Talaud, her hip pressed into the frame.

She listened calmly as glasses were broken, beds were overturned and drawers were pulled off its hinges. She looked at her nails, bored. Her eyes drifted back up to the stoic face of Detective Logan Fell of the Sûreté as he wrote in his notepad.

"Double M," She interrupted, looking from his notes to his face. "Countess Isobel de la Flemming—Flemming has two Ms. You'll find my name, as well as the correct spelling, in the deed."

The detective grumbled in response and scratched out and rewrote her name.

Just then, Isobel turned around, turning her face towards the living room.

"You there," She called out suddenly to a detective coming down the stairs. "Please take my belongings out of your coat pocket."

Logan began to protest but stopped short when Isobel raised her hand to shush him. What he did not see was her eyes dilate and concentrate on the other detective as she commanded him.

"I'm sorry," the man said robotically as he reached into his breast pocket.

He placed a diamond necklace and a pair of ear bobs on table that was near to the bottom of the stairs.

Logan swore loudly before Isobel turned her face, pleasant, back to him.

"Anything else, monsieur?" Isobel batted her lashes.

Logan wagged his notepad at her.

"We'll be keeping an eye on you," He warned, walking back to his carriage.

Isobel stood quietly in the doorway, watching the carriage disappear into the horizon. When they were a speck of sand in her sight, she felt a presence behind her. She turned her face to the side and looked at Jeremy before looking ahead of her again.

"Are you still vexed with me?"

"Yes," Jeremy said plainly as he stared at the back of her head.

Isobel turned, her gaze was soft.

"Don't be…please?" She asked.

"One of these days, Is, you're going to push him too far…or push me too far."

Her arms went around his neck and she rested her cheek against his shoulder. Jeremy was as still as a stone, his arms lifeless at his sides.

"I don't mean to…I can't help it…" She said quietly.

"Yes you can," Jeremy said, slightly annoyed.

"Well, he's gone—isn't he? I told him where she was going. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"It means you're falling back while you devise another moronic plan."

Isobel looked up at Jeremy's face until he turned his gaze downward to her.

"No more plans. No. It means I'm tired, Jeremy. I deserve to be happy too, don't I?"

"Yes," He said dryly.

"Will you just kiss me?"

Jeremy's arm anchored around Isobel's tiny waist and pressed her further into him. He pulled her back into the mansion and kicked the door shut behind them. His gaze was intensely passionate.

"No," He said matter of factly. "You need to kiss _me_, Isobel. I'm through chasing you."

No other words were spoken. Isobel's cool hands slid alongside his face and her lips pressed upward and against Jeremy's mouth. She craved for his touch, for the dark beauty that his passionate embrace bore. He gave that to her quite generously.

* * *

Joseph Oller was a large, older gentleman. Whatever hair he lacked on his head, appeared to have gone into his beard which was wiry and full of grey. Her interview was quite brief. His appraisal was concise, asking her to twirl and pirouette—and strangely asked to see her calves. Elena had no difficulties as she was professionally trained in various kinds of dance—from the classical to the scandalous. Though, the Bulgarian court's idea of scandalous dancing looked like child's play in comparison to Moulin Rouge. Though he didn't express it, Monsieur Oller had reservations about the dark haired beauty. He couldn't imagine her cavorting on stage while removing clothing—but there was something about her that captivated him. And so he agreed to take her under his employment. And so for her first performance, he decided to put her in with a group of women on the stage in the back of Moulin Rouge where she would partake in ballets.

The back of Moulin Rouge was a more subdued affair than what went on between the walls. The back had a large open amphitheatre for entertainment—the yard was filled with tables and chairs. Quite often, this area was occupied by deliberately ignorant women and children. To the left of the stage was a gigantic plaster elephant. This elephant was notorious with the male occupants of the MR. After paying a fee, a gentleman would walk up a spiral staircase located in the front leg of the massive elephant. Once the person reached the belly, he would find a lovely seductress there to entertain him. Of course, no women, other than the dancer, were allowed inside of ___Un elephant__. _Instead the women watched ballets outside while the men watched a more scandalous kind of dance inside.

The idea of dancing inside the MR was unnerving to Elena. Though she had become comfortable with her nudity with Damon, she couldn't imagine being comfortable in such a state with drunken men. Though, if she was asked to do it, she imagined that she would. She had no choice. She needed the money. Bulgaria seemed so far away, like another life. Even farther, was her family in Italy. Her entire trip to Paris was fraught with nausea. Her anxiety was at a fever pitch and she felt weak and sick as a result. She knew she could tuck tail back to Bulgaria but for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to do it. When she thought of Matthew, she felt shame. Her marriage was a complete and utter failure. While she loved her children, she had bore them into a family where there was no love between mother and father. Her children were the fruit of obligation. Beyond that, the last night she had seen Matthew, she had been quite wanton. Just thinking of it brought an unwelcome scarlet hue to her face.

As Elena titled her head, studying her body in the mirror, a woman came behind her.

Her name was Jules and she was beautiful. She was blonde, blue eyed and towered over Elena at 5 feet and 9 inches. She was the lead performer of the Moulin Rouge. Her eyes slid up and down Elena's body—the appraisal of a dancer. Elena suddenly felt very insecure and managed a nervous smile. Jules face remained passive as she straightened Elena's tutu and disappeared into her private dressing room.

It was late afternoon when Elena took the outdoor stage. The chatter from the crowd was heavy and the attention was sparse. She found that the wives of the attendants to the inner rooms of Moulin Rouge didn't care for her pirouettes and her pliés. In fact, most of them looked bored if annoyed. In all honesty, she couldn't blame them. She knew what it was like to play dumb to a husband's indiscretions. And if what she had seen in the last day was any indication, there were many indiscretions being had behind the velvet curtains.

Elena stared at the sky as she danced, her mind floating towards the clouds. She thought of Damon, of Chateau Talaud. She thought of his eyes as she stared at the wide blue blanket that filled the sky. She missed the coolness of his hands, his kiss. She missed how her skin would warm his. Elena spun again and again, her heart hammering in her chest. She thought of her opium now, hidden inside wrapped cloth. She thought of the blackness as she spun, waving off her dizziness as she closed her eyes. She imagined the smoke—curling, dancing, and flitting in a _Batterie_ like a dangerous ballerina. She sighed, almost moaned as she finished her dance, ending in _attitude en pointe_. Her eyes were shut tightly as she listened to her breathing. As she opened her eyes, she came to realize that there was no music playing. The dancers stood off to the side of the stage, whispering to one another as they watched her. How she had missed the end cue, Elena didn't know. But she was filled with embarrassment as she quickly left the stage. The applause was the loudest that anyone had ever heard in the ampitheatre and it didn't go unnnoticed. Elena caught the hard eyes of Jules when she made way back into the dressing room. Though she tried to avoid her gaze, Jules made her way to Elena as she stood at her vanity table. She was tall, intimidating.

"This is my show," Jules' tone was firm, her finger suddenly pressing into Elena's collarbone.

"I don't doubt that," Elena said tiredly as she gathered her things.

"Well then you'd do well to remember it." Jules warned.

Elena said nothing as she gathered her belongings and left the cabaret. She didn't have time for ballet drama. She was there for money, not fame. She hoped Jules wouldnt become a problem.

From the corner of the room had stood Monsieur Oller. Thought he hadn't seen Elena dance, word of her grace came to him almost as soon as her performance was over. His interest had increased tenfold as soon as he found the reason for the significant applause from outside his office. She was a diamond in the rough, that was for certain.

That night, as she laid in bed at a seedy hotel room in Pigalle, Elena twirled the opium rock in her hands. She hadn't attempted to smoke it yet. Instead she held it close and occasionally smelled its earthy scent. It was her security. When she left the hotel, away from her rock, she felt anxious and uneasy. She wondered thoughtfully if Paris had opium dens. The thought was exciting and frightening to her. She missed it. She missed the burn that would coat her throat. She missed the blinding emptiness. And yet, it terrified her. She had gone nearly a month without opium. While she had gone without opium for longer during dry months, this last separation was most difficult. There was no Sir John waiting in the wings to save her. She mocked herself for still seeing him as a savior. Damon had blackened her memory of John with his revelation. Perhaps Damon was right, perhaps John had raped her. But she knew, didn't she? She didn't stop him, did she? The line of verbal consent and nonverbal consent blurred to Elena and she wasn't quite sure what to feel. On one hand, she missed John—she missed the abandon that he represented. On the other hand, she didn't miss his touch or the discovery of marks on her skin when sober. He never had even attempted to approach her in an uncomely way when she wasn't under the influence. In fact, he was a perfect gentleman. Instead, he waited until she was a zombie. The idea was disgusting to her. She never asked…never wanted him. The idea was revolting and it literally turned her stomach. And yet she had let it go on, she had blocked it from her mind. She was so hungry for opium, it was all that mattered.

She missed Damon. She missed him far more than she thought possible. The idea filled her with a heavy sense of melancholy. She still hadn't analyzed the exact emotion that she felt for him. At this point, she didn't think she could handle it. The separation was all the agony she could handle. It felt like a mistake but she knew she had done the right thing.

Elena sighed, pulling the rock to her chest and watched as a cockroach walked across the wall. She closed her eyes and cried.

* * *

**May 6th**

It was well after midnight when Damon entered Paris.

He loathed Paris. He couldn't stand the crowds, the desperation that emitted from them. He had, on several occasions, been the victim of attempted pick pocketing when in the city. The would-be thief, although, soon found that he had chosen the wrong person to thieve. At the most, it made for a quick meal in a dark alley.

After settling his few belongings in the new and not-yet-open-to-the-public Hotel Ritz, Damon took to the streets. There was an excitement to the air. He could sense it. And after listening to various conversations that drifted from windows and courtyards, he came to discover that today would be the opening of _Le Tour Eiffel_. He looked west and above the hotels and lovely shops so that he could see the monstrosity that was created by Gustave Eiffel. He had been in Paris when the first beams had been put in place. Personally, he saw it as an eyesore and a desperate tourism gimmick. A cool breeze swept past Damon and for a brief moment, he froze. His senses nearly grasped ahold of something but it left just as quickly as it came. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and continued on.

_There_.

Damon stopped again. Her scent was in the air—it was minute but it was there. A renewed sense of energy suddenly invigorated Damon.

She was in Paris.

He was going to find her!


	26. Risen

**Six hours later.**

The sun had just begun to peak over the horizon when Elena arose to greet the morning. Dressed in a simple dress and hat, she made her way to _Les Halles_. She enjoyed getting lost in the market, disappearing amongst the sea of the crowd. These days, in fact, there was very few things she seemed to enjoy. Her mind drifted briefly of when she had gone to the market with Damon. It was days ago and yet it felt like a lifetime. Her heart lurched in her chest and she forced herself to pay attention to the produce stacked in front of her. It hadn't been easy to drag herself from her bed but she had done it. She HAD to do it.

After purchasing a small bag of cherries, she wandered down _Rue Montorgueil_ to _Pâtisserie Stohrer_. Known as the oldest patisserie in Paris, Elena had often had baked goods delivered to her whenever she was in Paris. She came under completely different circumstances today. She came as a commoner, a nobody. Now, she was forgoing any dinner money she had planned simply so she could sit on the patio and have a chocolate covered croissant and coffee underneath the warmth of the sun. She watched the birds and tried to let her mind wander.

She dreaded going back to the hotel—the sooner she did that, the sooner she'd have to go to work. Monsieur Oller had sent a runner to her room at a very indecent hour. He had the runner give her a box and a note signed by him. Inside of the box was an outfit encrusted in crystals with instructions to be ready to dance on the main stage of the Moulin Rouge today. The main stage? She had only worked at Moulin Rouge for a day! She wasn't prepared in the least for such a performance. She thought idly about Jules and could only imagine how she reacted to the news. She surely couldn't do ballet on the main stage, no. The men would want a very different dance. She couldn't imagine how to move without looking forced. She groaned into her coffee. Today was setting up to be a

* * *

The sun rose without Damon taking a moment's rest.

He had taken a sketch of Elena and carefully asked around town if anyone recognized her. He tried to stay away from first class citizens as they might recognize her face as that of the kidnapped Princess. He was frustrated as he had no caught her scent since hours before. So far, no one that he had asked had recognized her.

Damon spotted a man pulling a cart across the street and for a reason unknown to him, he decided to stop him.

"Excuse me," Damon attempted to sound polite.

The man turned and sized up Damon and found him unthreatening.

"Oui," He asked tiredly.

Damon lifted his sketch, creased from being folded in his pocket, and showed it to the man.

"Have you seen this woman," He asked.

The man took a look at the sketch and shook his head. He began to turn and stopped short. Taking the picture from Damon's grasp, he studied the drawing again for a longer moment.

"Peut-être…Son visage est familier. Pigalle? "

Damon felt a sharp pang of excitement so severe that he reached out, seizing the man's arm. She looked familiar! He spoke to him in rapid French and he could tell that his intensity was frightening to man. As the man yanked his arm back with trepidation, Damon became all together distracted with another feeling. It was a blinding pain, so much so that he fell to his knees. His eyes felt like they were on fire and he knew at once what was happening and was helpless to stop it. A cold bead of sweat formed on his forehead.

"Isobel," He shuddered.

* * *

She was in the basement. It was dark, though she could still reasonably see. There was a methodical drip of water that persisted in the dark corner of the room and it filled her ears like a boom. All that she could think about was the unimaginable pain that she was in.

Her eyes were so swollen that it hurt to keep them open. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot. She was lying on her stomach on the floor, cold stone to her naked skin. An archaic mouth guard was secured over her face and chains were shackled to her wrists.

"Where is she," The voice called out.

Isobel lunged towards the figure in front of her but her chains gave very little and snapped her back against the floor. The figure opened a box and leaned forward. With vervain pressed to Isobel's skin, it sizzled like twirling meat over a spit. She cried out—it was agony, nearly unendurable. Still she said nothing. They had been completely unprepared. It was foolish. They had been making love for hours and were stupidly not on the alert. She allowed herself one long moment to panic about Jeremy before she shut down emotionally. It would do neither of them any good to allow emotions to get in the way. She had hoped that he was able to escape. They had to protect their sire. They had to protect Damon.

The figure squatted down, his face coming into the steam of light. He was beautiful. His face was a smooth, golden complexion. He wore a cunning tailored suit and the darkness of it accentuated the bluest ocean in his eyes. His finger slid down the arc of her scapula to her lower back. It amazed him to feel her muscles tense so drastically underneath her skin.

"It's a pity," He said, "to blemish such flawless skin."

He sat beside her, his back pressed against the stone wall. He rose his knees to his chest and turned his face down towards her. He appraised her backside with appreciation.

"You are all similar, you know," He remarked.

Isobel gave a hard laugh and said nothing.

"There is something about each and every one of you. There is an otherworldliness about you yet it's so…indiscernible. I can never exactly pinpoint what it is about you all. But there is a special something that physically sets you apart."

He leaned forward and tucked her hair behind her ear as her face lay awkwardly on its side. She shrunk back with disgust.

"Do you know," He asked, "that I could do _anything_ I wanted to you—right now—and not one person in this lovely little chateau would care?"

Isobel laughed again. This time, her giggle was more unhinged than her last. She almost wanted him to try—she wanted to go down fighting. She wondered if she could crush his bones in between her legs if he tried to violate her.

The man sighed and stood.

"This is your last chance," He warned.

Isobel listened to his voice—the accent, the coolness of how he spoke his words. She had never encountered a human so detached as this man. If she hadn't been a vampire, she would have most definitely cowered to his words. She closed her eyes and relaxed, waiting for a stake to crush through her back or for him to attack her in any way.

Instead, the man banged on wall and called to his accomplices above. The basement door opened and a body was thrown down the stairs. It hit each step with a heavy thud until it reached the floor of the basement. Isobel knew instantly that it was Jeremy—the metallic scent of his blood flooded her senses and she instantly sat up and screamed out his name.

"Hello, Jeremy," The man called out, walking towards the immobile body.

He grabbed a fist full of Jeremy's hair and lifted his head to his eye level.

Jeremy moaned between his lips and his eyes opened into slits. The slits of his eyes widened significantly and he felt his body stiffen more than he thought possible. He let out a confused moan and felt himself shrink back.

Isobel noticed this and she in turn felt herself go on the alert. Jeremy was rarely caught off guard.

"Now, there is no reason that we can't do this civilly. I believe that we can help each other," The captor said pleasantly.

Isobel and Jeremy exchanged a silent look.

The man looked from Jeremy to Isobel and back again.

"Why don't we try this again," The man smiled. "Allow me to introduce myself."

The man chuckled to himself and looked at Isobel.

"Well, perhaps our Jeremy here has mentioned me before? My friends call me Sir John."


	27. Shadow

_A/N: I apologize for the length of time between my updates. I primarily do my writing while at work and sometimes its hard to squeeze in time. I've also been dealing with issues with my muse. But never fear—we are nearing the end of our journey and I hope you stick along for the remainder of the ride._

* * *

Death can be a tricky thing and for Sir John it was no different.

That dark night with Damon was the singular most terrifying moment of his mortal life. Damon had been very precise in his kill. He drank from John's neck like it was a wine decanter and his mouth was the glass. John had been rather resigned to his death. Why fight the inevitable, he thought. Yet, as bodies do in the final throws of life, he struggled—his blood splattering the wallpaper and dribbling down his shirt. It was a strange feeling—he felt himself grow weaker and weaker as blood left his body never to return. His last memory was of Damon's look of utter loathing mingled with satisfaction as he stood over him.

_Smug bastard_, he had thought before slipping into unconsciousness.

John, though, had an ace up his sleeve that even Damon hadn't anticipated. His ring. A large gold ring set with precious stones was a permanent fixture on his middle finger. This tiny piece of jewelry was bound by magic. This magic protected him from death via the supernatural.

Perhaps he would have awoken sooner. Perhaps he could have sped up the wheels of vengeance but his rebirth was hindered significantly when Damon left John's body to burn with Lyon Grange. When he awoke from death's embrace, his entire bedroom was on fire as was the lower half of his body. The pain was blinding and it took all of his strength to pull himself to the nearest window and fling himself to the ground below. By the time he was able to drag himself on his elbows to the cover of the brush, his entire mansion was engulfed in uncontrollable flames. Be it the heat or the general exertion, but John fell into unconsciousness amongst the cloak of the bramble.

It wasn't until mid afternoon that he awoke to the acrid scent of smoke. There was a bird singing nearby and it provided a strange soundtrack as he was able slowly turn his face towards his home. Ashes. His home was a giant pile of blackened timber and ash. His body was in agony as he stared at the charred, lower half of his body. He was nearly immobile where he laid. John idly thanked God for spring time or he could have been in a grimmer predicament had there been a snowstorm. Fever took hold of him not long after and he was nearly delirious with hurt and infection. Two whole days he laid in the grass, covered in his own filth. The smell was horrid and his pain even more so. He pulled blindly at grass and at leaves and consumed them for any kind of sustenance that they might provide.

It wasn't until Friday morning that John emerged from the brush. Every step was a battle and it took several hours for him to seek solace with the only person he could trust to help him in his hour of need. As his blood began to pump through his veins, John felt a surge of energy that he hadn't felt in days. It was then he realized that he was going to be okay. John wasn't quite certain of his next course of action until he found himself in the garden of the Royal Palace. Though it was dangerous, John managed to sneak up into the staff apartments to see the one person left that he could consider an ally.

John had to cover Vicki's mouth to keep her from screaming.

"I know I must look a fright," He said shakily, hurriedly. "I apologize but I have nowhere to turn."

Vicky wrenched John's hand off her mouth and surveyed him with a mingling sense of shock and horror.

"I heard you were dead! There was a body…!"

"Surprise," John said dully, as he hobbled towards her bed, sitting on the edge. "The body was probably a prostitute."

Vicki shut door to her room and stared at him, open mouthed.

"You look awful."

John rolled his eyes.

"How do you think I feel? I'm the one who was burned and left for dead."

Vicki rushed to her wash basin to grab a damp cloth.

"How did you survive," Vicki said as she moved towards him, pressing the cloth to his head.

"By the divine grace of God," John said cryptically, taking the cloth from her.

"We have to get you a doctor."

"No," John yelled, causing Vicki to jump.

"No," John said again, lowering his voice. "No one can know. My life is in danger and I need your help."

Vicki's hand flew to her throat.

"What?"

"It might be best if you sat down for what I have to tell you…"

Vicki's eyes widened and she sat beside John.

"Count de la Salvatore…isn't who he appears to be. This may come as a shock to you but he is," John paused, "a vampire."

His eyes lifted to Vicki, awaiting her cry of disbelief. Instead he was given an ordinary look, if slightly nonplussed.

"I know," Vicki confessed.

"You know?" John stood suddenly.

"I saw him…"

"When?"

"When Caroline was attacked…"

John closed his eyes, his mouth painted with a slight smirk.

"Ahh, of course. It was him, wasn't it?"

"Yes. It was. I saw him in her bedroom recently…he fed her his blood. It was…frightening. Stranger still, Caroline was nearly back to her normal self the next morning."

"And you've kept this little piece of information a secret," John questioned.

"His majesty will receive the information tonight after the ball. I can say no more."

John nodded, absorbing the information.

"What can I help with," Vicki asked.

"Clothes. Find my lawyer—I need money, contacts."

Vicki stood and John lifted his hand to her.

"Where is Count de la Salvatore now?"

"His estate? He's expected at the ball tonight."

John laid back in Vicki's bed and watched her exit the room.

He had planning to do.

By the time the ball began hours later, John's body's healing was nearly complete. Suffice to say that his lawyer had been in complete shock was an understatement. But he efficiently and concisely put John's affairs in order. Lyon Grange was completely destroyed by the fire and though it was upsetting, John knew that he would soon leave Sofia and never return. The insurance he collected on the property more than sufficed.

He stood in front of a mirror, evaluating himself. Vicki came up behind him and slid her arms under his and bent them towards his face, fixing his collar. John felt her press her lips into the back of his jacket before pressing her forehead against it.

"John, I…I'm glad you're alive. When I heard of your passing… "

"When you heard of my passing, you ran to my lawyer to see if you were named in my will."

He turned around, staring down at Vicki as she looked away with shame. His placed his finger underneath her chin and lifted her face up to catch her gaze.

"No worries, my sweet. He told me you seemed legitimately distraught."

"I was," Vicki pouted, her voice small.

"Mmhmm," John mused. "Tell me; are you still after that sorry excuse of a Lord?"

Vicki's eyes narrowed and her back straightened.

"You'd do well not to speak ill of my fiancé to me, John. You know how I feel about him."

"Fiancé," John repeated, surprised.

"Yes. No. Well, not officially. I'm truly not supposed to tell a soul. But if I can keep your secret, you can keep mine. He is going to propose—I think it might even happen tonight. I do hope."

John's hand cupped Vicki's face, his thumb sliding across her cheekbone.

"Oh my sweet Vicktoria. He will disappoint you so."

"What do you mean," Vicki asked, vague panic in her voice.

John leaned in, his mouth inches from Vicki.

"Do you think you can keep another secret," John whispered, his eyes taking on a predatory gleam.

Vicki nodded slightly and blinked quickly, nervously.

John's mouth pressed forward into hers, her lips parting with instinct. Her arms wrapped around his neck and he pushed her back towards the bed. Vicki's hands slid to his collar, her fingers moving deftly as she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulders and down his arms. Though Vicki had never allowed herself to fall in love with John, she always found him to be an incredible lover. Yet, since she had discovered that John was bedding the Princess, she had distanced herself from him sexually. That information had filled her with jealousy and rage but even still she withheld that piece of information to Tyler. While giving opium to the Princess was a great offense, sleeping with her was a death sentence. She couldn't have that on her conscience. Yet now, with his familiar hands roaming her body, Vicki allowed herself one last night with John.

"I missed you," She managed to whisper as his lips found her neck.

John pulled down the neckline of her dress, her breast spilling into his palm—cinammoned skin and milky skin mingling together. He hiked up her dress and ripped apart her underwear, pulling them down her thighs. He spread her legs and pulled his cock outside of his trousers. He was so hard that it was almost painful, his skin still tender and warm to the touch. Without a word, he thrust himself forward and invaded the tight and wet sheath that Vicktoria offered to him. He swallowed her moan as they kissed, a frantic pace set—each knowing for different reasons that this would be the last time that they would join as lovers.

Afterwards, Vicki lay in bed and watched as John dressed. He straightened his tie and turned to Vicki, drinking her in.

"Thank you for helping me," He said finally.

He grabbed a donkey mask that was sitting on the dresser and held it to himself. He leaned down to towards Vicki, kissing her soundly.

"I missed you too, Vick." He said softly.

As he walked towards the door he paused and turned.

"You'd do well to watch your fiancé. Watch him closely."

Vicki said nothing and pushed herself back into the her pillows quietly as the door shut behind John.

John had to admit, the ball was a resounding success. The ballroom was decorated handsomely and all of Sofia's high society was in attendance. He noticed immediately when Damon walked into the room. Words were not adequate enough to express John's outrage and anger at seeing his murderer walking without a care in the world.

There was something about Damon that commanded attention. He walked around as if he were the Prince and not Matthew. Ahh, Matthew. His highness looked dashing and sated as he was seated on his throne. John had half a mind to say hello but seeing as how everyone in Sofia still thought he was dead, he felt it better to stay hidden behind his mask. He watched the King as he watched the crowd, his eyes so clearly on his lover—Tyler Lockwood. Tyler was dancing with Vicki and he had to suppress a groan for the fakery of it all. It was so obvious to him and to much of society though only discussed in discreet whispers. He watched Damon take a flute of champagne as he stood on a platform across the room. Just then, his attention, much like everyone else, had been diverted to the grand entrance of the Princess.

A swift current of lust washed over him as he saw her drift into the room. Her dress was scandalous to be sure. He envisioned himself ripping it apart in his hands. John sighed, frustrated. His death was her fault, he hadn't forgotten. There was a reason why he was here. Vengeance. He was already dead, wasn't he? Yes, in his own way, he was dead. He had nothing to lose. He watched as Prince and Princess danced. He watched as she drank herself into oblivion. She must be dying without her opium, he imagined. The entire ball went on without incident and he himself was pleasantly drunk as it ended.

He managed to follow Elena, oblivious in her drunken haze, as she wandered down the hallway. His plan was to kidnap her and to lure Damon with that knowledge. Before he had his moment, Damon pulled her into a room. He listened as they nearly made love until a pathetic argument sent them in opposite directions. His laughed inwardly at Damon-the sentimental fool and Elena, the cold hearted whore. It was here that his path diverted and he began to follow Damon. It was here that he nearly gave up his cover.

There he was—following stealthily behind Damon when they came across the scene between Tyler and Vicki at the stop of the grand staircase. Instinct told him to save her. That bastard Lockwood had gone mad. It would have been so easy to tackle him, releasing Vicki from the death grip around her neck. He couldn't imagine what was going through her mind as she looked beyond Damon at him. That look would haunt him forever. Her eyes were begging, pleading. Only hours before they had shared a bed, his seed assuredly still inside of her. He wanted to save her but couldn't save her. He would have given himself away. John did the only thing he could think to do—place his hand over his heart with reverence. It was a silent plea for her forgiveness. He didn't watch her take her last breath, there wasn't time. He ducked behind a column that was several paces behind Damon before slipping into a room. It was here that he nearly lost him but with a stroke of luck, he caught a glimpse of him fleeing out of a window and into the dark of the night. He was able to track him back to his estate.

And so began John's journey of following Damon through Bulgaria. Before long, he discovered Elena and Jeremy had met up with him at some point during the night. He was always half a day's ride behind. Armed with money to pry the locals for information and with his steed, John was able to nearly catch up with them at the Port of Sarande. He missed the ferry by less than an hour.

And so it became a one sided game of cat and mouse until John tracked Damon and Elena to the Chateau Talaud. His victory, though, was short lived. Not to be deterred, John settled for Isobel and Jeremy.

He would have his vengeance, in one way or another.


	28. Dust

During Isobel's first years as a vampire, she had become utterly obsessed with Damon. In a jealous rage, she'd kill any lovers of his that she discovered. She killed hundreds in the name of love and respect for her sire. Her sex was insatiable. Once she seduced him onto a dinner table of a family they slew. It was lovely. Though it could be argued that she hadn't changed much, Isobel truly had lessened in her fixation of her sire-partly due to Jeremy. So paranoid was she of losing his attention in those early years that she bound herself to Damon with magic. In later years, she'd regret her impulsive move but pride kept her from breaking her bond. When Damon first discovered Isobel's deception, to say he was angry was putting it mildly. It was an interruption by Jeremy that saved Isobel from Damon's outrage that first night and the subsequent nights after. Her magic was this: Though she could not make Damon love her, she could make herself desirable in a way that she knew would make him notice her. And notice her he did and quite often. He could not kill her or harm her. If he killed her, she claimed, he would perish as well. Neither could he seriously injure her, otherwise he'd feel the dull ache of her pain. Though, sometimes her pain and his subsequent pain wasn't enough of a threat when Isobel had been acting foolish. He also couldn't cast her out of their home—where ever it may be. When Damon was separated from Isobel for long periods of time, he felt an anxiousness that was brought on by her magic. Only when he came home again was he able to calm regulate himself accordingly. And so, as Damon stood on the streets of Paris, he knew with great certainty that Isobel was in great harm.

Damon gasped, clutching his side and he bolted up and staggered back towards his hotel room. His arm twisted suddenly without cause, snapping loudly before falling crazily at his side. Damon groaned, biting down to keep from screaming. His vision became tunneled, and his eyes were throbbing viciously. His mind was racing a mile a minute, each step more difficult than the last. No sooner had he burst into his room, did he fall to the ground in agony, shielding himself from something he could not see.

* * *

Isobel's jaw was clamped shut, her eyes vacant, blood filling her mouth. She hadn't said a word in the last half hour as she lay on the stone floor of the basement. Damon had to have known something was amiss by this time. Yet, she resigned herself to the fact that he would not return. He couldn't. Even if he wanted to, he probably would have come too late to liberate she and Jeremy. She laid quietly as she walked through a dizzying maze in her mind. She wanted to scream, to cry. Instead there was silence. Once she settled on a final course of action, she felt awash with relief. She knew what she had to do. She just hoped she had the strength to do it.

"This has become tiresome," John's voice echoed through the quiet.

He loosened his tie and flicked the top button of his shirt open, surveying the damage that had been done.

Isobel lay shackled to the floor—violated, her eyes swollen and bulbous. Her mouth was twisted in a strange blood soaked smirk with one arm broken at her side. Across the room laid Jeremy—knees shattered, crushed orbital bone and blood…everywhere blood. The metallic earthy scent of it was so incrediblly heavy that even John could smell it. It was horrifying how much torture a vampire could endure. It was also, to John, quite fascinating. It reminded him of his days in the medical field.

"Well, this has been quite useless," John admitted, pulling a stake from the breast pocket of his coat. "I'm obviously not going to get anything out of you two beasts. This has been...interesting."

Just then, the sound of Isobel's strained whisper caught his ear.

"Ego dico ut matris of polus. Ego dico ut abbas of abyssus. Hic meus dico. Ego solvo Damon , ex meus vinculum. Ego solvo vos. Indulgeo mihi."

"Damon? What is that? Latin? Did you say Damon?"

Jeremy looked up weakly as John advanced towards Isobel, crouching beside her—his stake poised high and to strike.

"Answer me!"

"Leave her be," Jeremy groaned. "She's gone mad."

He lied. He knew exactly what Isobel had done and his heart lurched heavily in his chest.

"It's a little late for that, vampire," John called over his shoulder.

John rolled Isobel onto her back and straddled her.

"What did you say, you filthy animal," He leaned forward, screaming. "Mad, you say? I'll show you mad."

He reared back and descended his fist upon her. The blow sounded thick, her blood spraying into the wall beside them. Isobel shut her eyes painfully for a moment; the throb in her head was intensified tenfold. She slowly rolled her face from her side to straight ahead, staring into John's eyes. He pulled the neckline of her dress up, ripping it at the seams as he jerked her body upward. She laughed coldly, amused at his child-like antics. So strange that a mortal man could act so much like a vampire.

"Answer me!"

John himself had become unhinged. His "death" marked the end of any shred of morality he had left. All he cared about was revenge. Nothing else mattered. John palmed Isobel's chin in his hand, his fingers digging into her cheek.

"Jeremy, ego tribuo vos meus diligo. Ego tribuo vos meus vires. Exsequor mihi."

_Jeremy, I give you my love. I give you my strength. Avenge me._

"No," Jeremy screamed, gasping. His chest pushed upward, surged with an unknown force, and his eyes widened. "Isobel…!"

John turned his gaze in the confusion from Isobel to Jeremy. In that moment, Isobel's eyes grew hard. She swung her face to the left, her mouth immediately clamping down on two of John's fingers. Her fangs ripped through flesh and bone like butter, swallowing his fingers—and the ring attached, down her throat. John roared out in agony, his left hand automatically propelling the stake through skin and rib straight into Isobel's heart.

Isobel's head lolled towards Jeremy. A tear snaked down Isobel's face just then as she smiled. Her bloody lips turned pale, ashen, as she mouthed 'Im sorry' to Jeremy. Her last fragment of a thought was of Damon—beautiful Damon as she disintegrated to dust on the breeze. There was commotion from above as John's hired hands ran towards the basement, alerted by his scream.

John fell forward, blindly sifting through Isobel's ashes for his ring. His blood poured from his fingers into the ash, making it a mud. He didn't see Jeremy rise with renewed strength fueled by Isobel's black magic. He did feel, although, Jeremy's teeth clamp down harshly onto his neck. He moaned, pushing himself forward but was pulled back by Jeremy's steel embrace. It wasn't his blood that Jeremy was after. It was the kill. Jeremy had never been one to enjoy the death of his victims, but this was different.

As John's hired men bounded down the steps, they stopped short at the sight in front of them. John stood limply in Jeremy's arms, his body twitching as blood gushed from his neck with every heartbeat. As John's vision doubled and clouded, he realized this was his end. His true end. He had a fleeting moment of panic and regret before Jeremy clamped one hand on his shoulder and one hand that fisted in his hair. As Jeremy took a final gnaw into John's neck, tearing through tendons, he pulled his arms in opposite directions—ripping John's head from his neck. John's body twitched as it fell to the floor in a heap. Jeremy's eyes were hard, dark. His gaze slid up towards the guards, still holding John's head by its golden hair.

All air left the room and the men took a large step back in fear. Jeremy tossed the head to the floor, a loud thud echoing along the walls.

None of them would make it out alive.

* * *

Damon woke up choking, gasping. It took a moment for him to realize that he was lying on the floor of his hotel room, in a pool of blood without a wound from where it came. He lifted his shirt and found nothing, felt nothing. His bent his arm and felt fine. He blinked his eyes and realized they were not swollen nor throbbing. Damon stood slowly and looked about the room, slowly remembering how he came to be back here. He stumbled on the bed and sat for a moment, his hand slowly going over his chest. There was a strange clarity that filled his body, his mind. _He knew_.

Isobel was dead.

He wept.

* * *

Elena stood in the dancer's dressing room in the back of the Moulin Rouge. Her hair was full, curled. Her eyes were painted in a dark shadow and her lips were as red as satan. She looked like a harlot, she thought, as she pulled her trench coat tighter around her. She was to be on stage in an hour and she still couldn't bring herself to remove her coat.

This wasn't ballet and she wasn't wearing a tutu. She was in a red and gold abomination. The top barely covered her breasts and was adorned in red jewels with gold accents. The bottom was a short skirt that barely covered her derriere with gold charms dangling off of the hemline. Elena blew hot air out from between her lips. Something told her that tonight was going to be crazy.

Elena's eyes connected with Jules from her reflection in the mirror. The seething gaze from her unwanted competitor was full of jealousy and rage.

_Very crazy._

* * *

It took hours before Damon was able to curtail his heavy emotions.

Isobel was dead. He didn't know how or why. He just knew that she was dust. It cut him. It cut him far more than he ever thought it would. Isobel had been a fixture in his life for years. Though she was a constant thorn in his side, a part of him always admired her. And now she was gone. He thought of how he saw her last—broken, defeated. A wash of guilt shamed him. His mind drifted to Jeremy and his entire body shuddered. No. Jeremy had to be alive. He would have felt something, anything, if Jeremy was gone. A part of him wanted to turn back, run back to the Chateau. They were the only family he had left. But a level head told him there was nothing he could do now. He was kilometers and kilometers away. He came here with a mission. And it was a mission he had to fulfill. Jeremy wouldn't have wanted him to come back on account of him. All he could do was hope.

And so Damon washed his face in a basin of water and changed into a fresh set of clothes. The sun was beginning to set and he knew that Elena was somewhere in the city. He was going to find her. He was going to find her tonight if it was the last thing he'd ever do.


	29. Lost and

It was ten minutes to curtain and Elena felt like crying. She didn't want to be there. She didn't want to be anywhere. She thought of the opium rock sitting inside of her coat pocket and it was the only thing to comfort her. The theatre was awash with Jablachkoff candles cleverly tucked inside of red filtered glass to give off a seductive glow. The patron chairs about the room were plush and covered in thick velvet. The chandeliers also shone red, bleeding its light across the room. Elena thought of Damon briefly before pushing him from her thoughts. Elena shrugged off her coat and decided that tonight she would smoke. She would forget everything. She would drift in a river without a care in the world. Elena reapplied her rouge and lipstick and puckered her lips to the mirror. She stared at herself. She was once a Princess and now dancing a fine line to becoming a whore. Her eyes were vacant, tired. She was tired.

Elena caught Jules in her reflection and saw her making her way towards her. She swore quietly and took a deep breath and she turned towards her.

"You must think you are the most clever trick in town."

"Excuse me?" Elena's brow furrowed slightly.

"You come into my club and in one day you are suddenly top billing on our most busy night," Jules laughed hard, cruelly. "Monsieur Oller must find you very talented behind closed doors."

Elena's mouth fell open.

"That's vile."

Jules shrugged nonchalantly and looked about the room.

"Do you think you are better than us," She waved her arm towards the other dancers.

A hush had fallen in the dressing room with all eyes on them. Elena was filled with rage, embarassment.

"No," Elena chose her words carefully. "I don't think I am better than anyone. I'm just here to provide for myself. I'm not here for anything else."

"Yes, all the while stealing stage time from girls that have been here for years. Girls that have worked hard to get where they are."

"Jules, that wasn't my intention."

Jules yanked softly at the strap of her top.

"Even dressed in Oller's hand-picked costume, eh?"

Elena looked down at herself, her breasts spilling out of the bodice of her outfit. She said nothing.

"You may be able to fool Oller and fool some of the drunken patrons. But you don't fool me. There is something not right about you. You appear from out of thin air and land on our doorstep. And suddenly you are the main attraction. No, no. I'm watching you, girl. I am watching you."

Jules appraised Elena once again with a scathing look.

"What do you want me to do? I'm just dancing here-the same as you. If you have a problem, take it up with Joseph. Not with me."

Jules jaw was set, her eyes were blazing.

"You have a lovely night," She spat and turned on her heels.

Five minutes to curtain.

* * *

It was twilight in Paris. The air was perfumed from restaurants with their doors swung open, their windows pulled up—Parisian cuisine wafting through the air. It was a beautiful night with a cool breeze. Damon wandered around town hoping for a shred of a clue to lead him to Elena. He was slightly nauseated from the day's events, slightly defeated. He tried to channel is frustration into a positive way but hadn't made leeway. It was nearly midnight and other than that fleeting encounter with the Parisian man earlier in the day, he hadn't found anyone who had recognized Elena. He needed a drink, but he also needed a clear head. In the distance he saw the slow turning of the windmill of the Moulin Rouge. He recalled, distractedly, how he had been to the establishment on several occasions and hadn't minded the show—or the subsequent meals. Damon sighed and turned away, the windmill disappearing slowly behind him on the horizon.

His hope, once bright as the sun, had begun to dim to the intensity of a dull moon.

* * *

Two minutes to curtain.

Elena rung her hands together and peeked through the curtains at the crowd. The occupancy was nearly at capacity. It was a Friday night and according to Monsieur Oller, one of the busiest nights of the week. The lights were dim, red. Smoke mingled heavily in the air. Glasses were tinkering and voices were filled with a kind of lusty easiness. Elena reached for a glass of bourbon that had been poured for her. Its scent was overpowering and flooded her nostrils before she had even put the glass to her lips. She held her breath and took generous gulps. It burned its way down her throat, leaving heavy warmth in her belly.

One minute to curtain.

Elena could feel Jules' eyes burning into the back of her head. She had left Elena feeling slightly uneasy. She had nothing to prove to Jules, she knew that. She wasn't trying to make enemies and yet negativity seemed to be a dark cloud over her wherever she was to go. She fingered with the gold charms at her hemline and said a quick prayer for the evening to go smoothly and quickly. Her mind focused on opium for a moment. Tonight would make all of her worries would fade away. It was the only thing worth looking forward to.

The curtain closed and the last act had vacated the stage. Elena was ushered forward by a stagehand and she made her way across the stage. Her mind was humming now from the bourbon and she shook her hands almost violently, as if pushing the negativity outward from her fingertips. She exhaled lightly and rolled her shoulders, making her limbs loose and closed her eyes. Offenbach's "_Orphée aux enfers" _(Orpheus in the Underworld) began to play. A barage of instruments came together with gusto as the red velvet curtains were pulled apart, showcasing Elena standing front and center…

Elena opened her eyes and in that instant, her heart swelled and contracted in her breast. The breath in her lungs escaped her as she stood and stared down the theatre as a man slowly stood from his table—his eyes on her and her alone.

The crowd murmured appreciatively, mesmerized by the beautiful vision in front of them—a goddess among men.

The music began to swell but she did not move and instead was frozen in her spot.

Damon stood slowly, awash in red lights, not quite believing what he was seeing. His eyes dilated and he found himself afraid to blink. There she was. After everything—there she was. Just like that.

The crowd hushed, their eyes scanning from the beautiful dancer to the man standing in the crowd. The music slowed until there was only a lone viola playing until it then, too, came to an aching stop. An uncomfortable cough was heard in the distance and the curtains began to close.

Only then did Damon take a giant step forward. Elena's eyes were wide, her hand suddenly clutching over her heart before she was hidden behind layers of velvet. The buzzing whispers of the dancers were inaudible to her. As soon as Damon's startling face disappeared from her view, she snapped back into a shaking reality. She kicked off her heels and rushed backstage, passed surprised dancers and crew. She could scarcely think. He was here! He found her! Her heart was beating a mile a minute and she shook and she threw her belongings into a bag and slid on her coat. She ignored Jules who, with a pleased smile, was watching her as she whispered with her cohorts. Why she was running away, she didn't know. Perhaps it was out of fear or something greater—elation at seeing him. Elena slid on a pair of slippers and rushed out of the Moulin Rouge and exited via a side door that led into an alley way.

She didn't have time to breathe, to think, to react. She was pinned into the plaster wall of the club almost immediately. Her breath in took sharply and even before her eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness, she knew it was Damon.

His fingers dug into her skin almost painfully and his forehead was pressed against hers. The only sound was the muffled music coming out of the Moulin Rouge and Elena's uneven breathing. His grip tightened and Elena's hissed in sharply. Damon slammed her lightly back against the wall again, saying nothing. His hands slid up then, cupping either side of her jaw. He moved forward, his mouth hesitating above hers before descending again with imperceptible assuredness. His tongue was like ice, and hers—like fire. They melted together; Elena's resolve suddenly was dust as she clung to the lapels of Damon's jacket, pulling him into her. It was as if the time apart had disintegrated, as if they had always been in each other's arms—thirsting for the other's soul. Damon moved his arm to the wall, bracing himself and drinking her in with his gaze. This was real. This was her face he was looking into. This was her lips he had kissed. This was her waist that arm was wrapped around. She was shaking, her arms now wrapped around his neck.

"How," She managed to whisper. "How did you find me?"

Damon kissed her again, burying his tongue inside of her mouth. His hand slid through her hair and he pressed against her, enveloped her. He broke the kiss slowly, achingly.

"Isobel," Damon said slowly.

Elena watched as his shoulder sagged for a brief moment before he regained his composure.

"Isobel," He began again, "told me you were in Paris."

Elena blinked, thinking.

"Why...would she do that?"

"I made her," Damon's tone was distant.

"But-"

"I don't want to talk about her," Damon interjected softly. "All I care about right now is what is in front of me."

"Damon..."

"Don't you ever do this to me again."

There was a long silence between them.

"I thought," Elena paused, "I thought maybe I was doing the right thing for you..."

"It wasn't. Did you think I was just going to let you go? After all of that? After everything we've been through. Elena, I took you from Bulgaria to France. I've killed for you. _Killed_," He emphasized. "Do you think I do this for just any woman? You're not just a conquest for me. You're it for me. You're the one for me. I would do everything over exactly the same if it meant meeting you, finding you. Don't you understand?"

Elena said nothing, too dumbfounded-too moved by the intensity of her words. Damon reached for her hands and took them in his, squeezing them.

"Maybe I was too proud before," He said softly. "Maybe I just didn't want to think it was possible for a vampire to feel like this. But in my heart-my unbeating pathetic heart-I know. I know that I love you, Elena. I love you. And I want to spend all of my days with you, waking up with you, laughing with you, crying with you...just being with you."

Elena's mouth went dry and her eyes, now accustomed to the dark, flew up to Damon's.

"What," She whispered, "did you just say?"

"I said I love you," His voice was steady, strong.

Elena let out a shuddered sigh and her grip tightened around Damon's fingers.

"I love you too," She said, her voice raising slightly. "Damon, I love you."

Damon's arms surrounded her then. Kissing her lips, her jaw, her temple, her ear, her neck.

"Where are you staying," He asked with his lips against her shoulder.

"In a hotel a few blocks away..."

"Do you have any belongings we should get?"

"No," She said quickly, strongly. "No. I don't ever want to go back there again."

Damon gathered her in his arms.

"Hold on tight," He commanded.

Elena did as he said and soon they were airbourne, high above Paris, flying towards his hotel room.

So filled with joy, with relief was Elena that she had all but forgotten about the rock of opium in her jacket pocket.


	30. Unexpected

They laid in Damon's dark room in the Hotel Ritz. Elena had been amazed at Damon's gift to finding his way into a generally decadent and unoccupied hotel. Yet, at the same time, she couldn't have imagined anything different. Later to be dubbed the "Imperial Suite," his room was the definition of grand opulence. The four poster bed settled inside the bedroom was an exact replica of Marie Antoinette's very own bed. It had a high tester gilted in three tone gold leaf with intricate carvings-it's drapes were of heavy gold silk that was tied cunningly at the headboard. The walls, pattered in gold shone even still by the pale moonlight. An unlit chandelier hung overhead like a watchful eye in the room, its jewels swaying too and fro by the draft through an open window. Empire furniture of red and gold sat in the salon just outside the bedroom. It was breathtaking and a nearly a true definition of royalty. And for a moment, Elena almost felt as if she had been transported back to her beloved Vrana, back to her home. It seemed so far away. She could scarcely see her gardens with her eyes closed. Damon's head rested against Elena's chest while she slowly stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. They hadn't even bothered to undress.

"…but can you be sure," Elena whispered.

Damon looked vacantly at an object in the distance as he responded.

"Yes. I'm sure she's dead. I can feel it. I can't explain how…"

They had spent the last several hours recapping what had gone on in the other's absence. Elena's story was nothing compared to what Damon had just told her. The way he described his grief and determination when he discovered she was gone was a humbling feeling. She hadn't realized the extent of his affection for her. She had thought she was just a lovely play thing to him. How wrong she had been. Perhaps it wasn't that. Perhaps it was just that she felt unworthy of that affection. Never before had she had anyone truly want her, need her. And though it made her happy-she had to admit it also frightened her. The idea of not being good enough was something that Isobel zeroed in on when they had their conversation. And now Isobel was dead. The burden felt heavy on her chest. _Opium._ She blinked and placed her arm along Damon's back. They were a mass of tangled limbs. She thought of telling him what Isobel had told him but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

"I'm so sorry…" She confessed suddenly. "If you hadn't…"

"Stop," Damon lifted his head, looking into Elena's eyes. "I know where you are going with it and just don't. Don't do it. Everything happened the way it was supposed to happen and there is nothing we can do to change that. What's done is done. She's dead."

Elena sighed quietly. Though she hadn't been fond of Isobel by any stretch of the imagination, she sympathized with her on some level. She had too loved Damon. She couldn't fault her for that. A part of her wondered if she had perhaps loved him, in her own way, more than she did.

"And Jeremy?" She asked.

"He's alive. I can sense his intensity. But he is still so far that I can't gather much more than that." Damon said quietly.

"Shouldn't we go to him?" She wondered aloud.

"Tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Right now, all I need is you."

Damon kissed the valley of her breasts—a bloom of cold fire spreading across her skin and into her veins. Damon hand reached over her breast and he toyed with the jeweled bustier. He raised his brow suggestively.

"Garish," He said lightly and he slid if fingers across the crystals.

"I didn't pick it out," Elena gave a half smile as she brushed her finger along a rhinestone.

"I like it," Damon confessed with a smirk. "It's...interesting. I still don't understand what in the hell possessed you to go there? The Moulin Rouge!"

"I'd like you to remember that I'm a lady," Elena smirked. "I had no idea that there were...establishments of that kind. And like I said…my money was limited. I needed financial stability for the mean time. I didn't…feel I had many options."

"You didn't think of going back to Sofia?"

"No," Her voice was firm. "What's for me there?"

Damon thought carefully, shutting his eyes.

"Don't you miss your children?"

Elena's heart contracted and she shut her eyes too.

"I can't think about them. Not right now, Damon."

"You can't ignore it forever, Elena. It's okay to miss them. There is no fault in that. There are your children."

"Princess Elena is dead," She sighed. "The sooner everyone accepts it, the better—the better for my country and my babies. I don't know how to be a mother. I would only hurt and confuse them. I didn't…I didn't get to do it motherhood correctly. I was too distracted by heartbreak, too inept to learn. It's too late. This is my life now."

"You know I would never keep you from them."

"I know," Elena paused before switching gears. "Damon…?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do _you_ have children?"

Damon's eyes opened slowly, his eyes slightly narrowed as he struggled to remember.

"Perhaps…a lifetime ago. I did."

His face suddenly grew slack, as if he remembered something he wished to forget. And so Elena changed the subject.

"What about Matthew?"

"What about him?"

"He's still looking for me."

"I know."

"We'll can go away from France. You, Jeremy and I."

"Where?"

"The Indies. America. Anywhere but Europe. It'll be a fresh start for us all."

"I've never been to America."

"You'd love it."

"Do you?"

"Yes," His eyes grew intense as he stared deeply into Elena's eyes. "I love it so much."

Damon turned his body and moved on top of her. His hand cupped the side of her face and she pressed her cheek into it like a cat, her eyes closing. He leaned down, capturing her lips in his. His kiss was gentle, soft. And with relaxed prodding, his tongue slid smoothly in between Elena's lips. Elena's insides churned with warmth. She squirmed lightly underneath him, her hips putting pressure against his pelvis. Damon let out a slow moan and slid his hands underneath her, unclasping her bustier and tossing it to the floor. Perfection. He moved, his mouth on her jaw and neck before moving to her collarbone and finally her breasts. His mouth claimed her hardened nipple while his hand claimed the other. Elena pressed her thighs together firmly for a moment and then released, a small jolt of pleasure imbedded itself between her legs. Damon's hand drifted from her breast down her skirt. He pulled the beaded material upward to her thighs before sliding his hand underneath and passed her panties. She was wet for him and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself in control. His index and middle fingers made slow, slick circles around her clit. He was creating a fire with a slow burn within her. Elena pressed her cheek into the pillow and moaned out his name and her breath hitched. He was as hard as a rock, his cock straining against his trousers—begging to be released. Damon slipped his hand out from under her skirt, licking his finger as he watched her. He pulled off her skirt and undergarments, staring down at her.

"You have no idea how much I want you right now," He shuddered, his hand unconsciously clenching into a fist.

"Then take me," Elena said huskily.

Damon tossed off his shirt and trousers faster than Elena could discern with her eyes. His naked body was over her now, his thick arousal pressing insistently at her entrance. Elena wrapped her legs around his waist and pushed her hips forward, guiding him just barely inside of her. Damon's eyes rolled shut as a groan rumbled in his throat. He pushed forward, burying himself deep inside of her. They moaned simultaneously, clinging to each other. Damon's hands were in her hair, kissing her thoroughly as he moved leisurely inside of her tight, wet sheath. Damon moved to rest his forehead against the side of her neck. He could feel her jugular vein pulsating against his lips. How easy, how wonderful it would be to slide his fangs passed her skin and into her ever flowing decanter of blood? Damon shuddered, his pace quickening as Elena writhed underneath him, her nails scoring down his back.

He felt amazing. Elena could barely think coherently with him inside of her. His cock was long, thick and it filled and stretched her completely. Her skin was prickled in gooseflesh from his cool touch. Her nails dug into his skin and she moaned with every thrust.

Damon's hand slid across her thigh, his arm curled around the back of her knee. He kissed her face, her mouth—his tongue delving inward. He noticed Elena's gasps had grown shorter, more desperate and her thighs clenched him tighter between them. He slowed his pace and placed his hands on her face.

Though Damon had changed the tempo of his lovemaking, it wasn't enough to slow down Elena's crescendo. She was already too close to falling into a glorious pit of pleasure. She wanted Damon to feel just as amazing as she was feeling in this exact moment. She pressed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him slightly back. Damon's eyes opened, connecting with her eyes—dilated from gratification. She craned her neck upward like a bird and bit her lip before whispering.

"Drink my blood," She demanded softly.

Damon's pace almost stopped completely from his surprise. She moved underneath him.

"Please," She continued. "I want you to. I've wanted you too for so long."

She watched as the veins on his face grew prominent and his fangs extended. Any shred of composure Damon had was completely gone. Elena fell back against the pillow just as Damon begun to plunge himself roughly inside of her—like an animal. She shut her eyes and felt her body begin to tense. A sweet pressure eclipsed itself in between her legs and she fell headlong into it. She tightened around Damon just as his fangs entered into her neck. The pain was sharp, brief, and she moaned out his name as her lifeblood slid onto his tongue. Damon climaxed the instant the moment her blood touched his tongue. It was blinding, powerful and he gasped sharply—almost choking as he pushed himself back slightly. His eyes were dark, feral and his mouth was painted with her blood. Elena looked up at him—the monster, the man—with heavy eyes. Her heart was swollen with an overwhelming feeling of love, of satisfaction. She reached up, touching his face. And even in her haze, she realized the look in his eyes was a different kind of wild. She was still clenching rhythmically around him, slower now, and jolts of pleasure coursing through his veins. His jaw, slack for a moment, was now tight much like his grip on the opposite side of her neck.

"Damon," She questioned thickly as her thumb smeared her blood across his lips.

Damon said nothing for a moment—as if he was checking and rechecking something within his mind. He waited a long beat as he stared down at her.

"You're pregnant."


	31. Discovery

**May 7th.**

Elena was suddenly very aware of the wind as it rustled between the trees below the hotel window. She blinked slowly as she stared up at Damon.

"What did you just say?" She asked gently.

Damon slid out of Elena slowly, a whimper escaping from her lips, while his jaw set. He shuddered and paused for a moment, wanting to bury himself in the gratification that they'd just experienced. He sat up and ran his hands over his face before sliding his fingers through his hair.

"You're pregnant," He heard himself say again.

How foreign that sounded, he thought. He sounded so detached, so far away, as if he wasn't the owner of that now monotone voice. This wasn't real.

"Pregnant," Elena mouthed, her brow furrowed in confusion as she shook her head once.

She tried to remember the last time she had her cycle. She paused, thinking. Her heart then tightened. It had been late February. She shut her eyes. They were now early May. Why hadn't she noticed? She knew why. She had been kidnapped. She had been taken to France. She had discovered Damon's wife. She had fallen in love with Damon and consequently run away to Paris. That was why she hadn't noticed.

Damon bit lightly into his tongue as his mind raced. He looked at Elena for a brief second and then looked away again. He suddenly recalled how strongly Elena carried Matthew's scent the night she was kidnapped.

"Elena. That night…the night of the masquerade ball. Were you…and Matthew…" His voice trailed off.

Elena's mind rewound.

_Matthew's mouth crushing hers…her dress ripping at the seams by his hands…_

A wave of nausea nearly drowned Elena at the idea. And then…

"And Sir John..." Damon couldn't even bring himself to vocalize the idea. It was horrifying to even think, let alone say.

_Late nights in an opium daze, Sir John's moans synching with her hallucinations…_

Elena had visited John two days before the ball, two days before Matthew. And as much as she wanted to deny that anything had ever happened with John, as much as she wanted to deny it even when she had soreness and bruises...She knew John bedded her that night. That night was just only a scant month ago.

Elena sat very still for a moment. A bubbling rumbled dully in her stomach before intensifying significantly in a matter of seconds. Elena's hand slammed over her mouth. She jumped out of bed and sprinted into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The windows rattled in its wake. Damon did not follow. His eyes moved slowly, as if he were reading invisible words, while Elena loudly retched in the next room. This was all happening too fast. He needed to think.

Elena poured cool water from a decanter into a wash basin. She splashed the water onto her face and looked up in the mirror. She recalled how sick she had felt the last few days, the nausea. She had chalked it up to nerves, to anxiety at her new situation. Elena took a deep breath and braced her hands on the counter. She grabbed bottle and brought it to her lips, gargling with mouthwash before spitting into another basin. She took a slow breath and told herself to relax. Elena reworked the situation in her mind, trying to grasp it. A sudden calm swept over her, embracing her in its warm hold. She felt comforted and suddenly she knew they were going to be okay. She opened the door and found Damon as she had left him, sitting on the bed and facing the wall.

"Tell me how you know," She demanded softly.

Damon raised his shoulders slightly, never lifting his gaze.

"I can't explain it other than to say I can taste it. I've…have before. I know. I just know."

Elena stared down at him.

"I can taste it," He repeated.

Elena moved towards him, his face eye level with her naked breasts. Damon wrapped his arms around her waist, his head resting against her softness. Elena's hands moved through his hair.

"If I am," She said slowly, "…if I am carrying a life inside of me, it's because of you."

Damon looked up at her and it nearly broke his heart to see such a sweet look of conviction on her face. If only…

"Elena, I can't…"

"What can't you?" She asked genuinely.

"I can't have children. We. We vampires cannot pro-create. Not in that way. Our pro-creation lies within our fangs and within our transfer of blood. We don't create life that gestates inside of a womb."

Elena stared down at him with a pitying gaze. She sat beside him, taking his hand in hers and she brought it to her lips. She then clasped it tightly with both of her hands as she looked at him.

"These last few months have taught me something so incredibly valuable," Elena said calmly. "It's taught me that life, Damon, life isn't as it seems. It has shown me that impossible things—crazy things are indeed possible. I've been opened up into a world that I never even knew existed. You opened that world up to me. You told me that I'm with child, and then my faith tells me that it's yours. Is that so hard to believe? Maybe this is a sign. Maybe this is a chance to for me to do things right."

Damon said nothing, his chest rising and falling unconsciously.

"You'll see," Elena kissed his hand again, "Our baby with have dark hair and blue eyes. I know it. You'll see."

Something about her intensity was almost frightening. But it was the sound of a quiet thud that directed his attention elsewhere. Damon stood, pulling his hand from Elena's.

"What?" Elena asked suddenly, looking around.

"Get dressed," Damon said suddenly.

"Damon…" Elena questioned nervously.

"Now."

Elena watched him as she grabbed a silk nightgown and slipped it on over her head. She smoothed it over herself and strained to hear anything.

"Get in the bathroom and lock the door behind you." He demanded flatly.

"Damon, you're scaring me. What's going on?"

Damon turned back to Elena suddenly, kissing her hard on the mouth. His eyes searched her, memorizing her face in scant moments.

"I love you," He said brusquely before pushing her back into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. He grabbed a chair and propped it against the knob.

Elena was too stunned for a moment to react. She moved to turn the knob and found that it would not turn. The low thud had given way to a rumble—a rumble in perfect cadence. Elena's eyes widened in alarm and she clasped both hands on the knob and turned. She screamed for Damon, now barely able to hear the sound of her own voice as she yanked futilely at the door. She jumped and covered her mouth when she heard the loud crack of the hotel door frame splintering apart. Her heartbeat was thudding in her ears and she fell back, pushing herself into the far corner of the bathroom. There were shouts—angry shouts in French and Elena found herself cowering, covering her ears. She raised her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on her knees, silently praying.

_Dear God, protect Damon. Dear God, protect Damon. I'll do whatever you ask. Please. Dear God…_

She felt so helpless, so stupid trembling in the corner of the room. She started to cry, her lips silently moving in prayer. And as quickly as the loud commotion began, it was suddenly quiet. Elena slowly removed her hands from her ears, the only prominent sound now was her sniffling. She looked up as saw a shadow fall over the door slit at the bottom of the door. She was frozen in the darkness, fear pumping from her heart and into her bloodstream. She heard the muffled sound of the chair that was blocking the door as it was being dragged back. The knob turned slowly, the door creaking open. Elena looked up and saw the dark figure in the doorway. Her eyes had not adjusted to the dark and she could not make out the features of the man walking towards her. She did know, although, that this man was most certainly not Damon de la Salvatore. The room suddenly flooded with the light of a candelabra held by a guard behind the man coming into the room. Elena squinted against the sudden brightness and put her hand over her eyes like a visor. She blinked hard and then her eyes widened. She suddenly found herself unable to breathe.

The candles flickered a warm glow of illumination over the features of Prince Matthew. He knelt down and took Elena's hand and pulled her up into his arms.

"You're safe now," He said, pushing her head against his chest.

Elena blinked, saying nothing and doing nothing.

Numb.

"You're safe."


	32. Departure

_A/N: I definitely had to tie up this side of the story before riding towards the conclusion!_

* * *

Matthew's embrace was strong and had she truly felt kidnapped, perhaps Elena could have found comfort there. Instead it was a blanket of deadened emotion. Nothing. A void.

Matthew released Elena from his arms and held her at arm's length.

"Did he hurt you," He asked, his jaw twitching as he did so.

"No," Elena said blandly before blinking her gaze to the man now beside him. Tyler Lockwood. She felt her eyes narrow slightly.

"Why are you here," She heard herself say as she looked from Tyler back to Matthew.

Matthew looked quizzically at Tyler and then back to Elena.

"She's in shock," Tyler said helpfully.

Matthew gave a half nod.

"Of course," He smiled passively. "Of course you are."

His hand rested on her shoulder before cupping the back of her neck. His startlingly blue eyes swept over her and took notice of her thin silk gown. Elena did not follow his gaze and instead took a cautionary look beyond his shoulders, hoping to catch a glimpse of Damon.

"Where is he," She whispered.

"Find her something decent to wear," Matthew ignored her.

As soon as Tyler stepped out of the room, Matthew's grip tightened around her neck.

"Did he touch you?" His eyes blazed with a predatory gleam.

"No, Matty," She lied.

"There was blood on the pillow cases…"

_Fangs sinking into her throat…_

"Where is he?" She changed the subject.

"He's being taken care of. Don't you worry, my dear."

Elena's eyes flew back to Matthew.

"No," Her tone was raised, almost shrill.

Matthew's brow furrowed, his attention diverted to Tyler who had brought over a simple gown. Elena recognized it immediately. It was a lovely amber day dress with pattered roses across the skirt. It was a gift from a darling dressmaker in Sofia. It was not something she had brought to France. It was something she hadn't seen in over a month. They must have brought her clothes with them. The realization clicked on in Elena's brain.

"You knew we were here," She realized aloud.

"She's unwell. I'll see that she is dressed. Find a doctor." Matthew commanded before shutting the door as Tyler departed.

He turned back to Elena and cupped her face.

"We've been trying to find you for a month. There were sightings here and there—but none as significant as France. We came by train to Paris which was a blessed coincidence because here you are—safe and sound."

Matthew grabbed at Elena's gown and pulled it over her head. Elena stood frozen in her spot, watching Matthew with a confused expression. What was happening? Matthew sighed heavily, catching sight of her naked body. He nearly groaned. Elena was like a prized possession to him—easy to overlook until stolen. And now that he reclaimed her, he was swept up in the triumphant zeal of it all. His fingers slid down the curve of her breast. Elena shrunk back slightly, not without notice. Matthew rested his hand at his side again, watching her curiously.

"You're safe now. He'll never be able to hurt you again."

Tears began to form in Elena's eyes before cresting over her lids and curving down her face. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest and she was afraid now that Damon was dead. She didn't even want to think it. But…what if he was? She made a hasty split second decision to kill herself the moment she was alone if that was true. Matthew helped her dress and kissed her forehead, pulling her against him again. She could feel his hardness against her and it revolted her. He held her for a long moment before sighing and opening the door of the bathroom.

What had moments ago been completely empty save Damon and Elena, was now filled with Bulgarian and French military. Elena looked about the room with fear and confusion. Then she saw Damon…

_Damon!_

He sat on the floor against the wall, his hands cuffed behind his back. His face was bloodied beyond belief—one eye already swollen shut while his chest was covered with abrasions. Elena's eyes widened in alarm but before she had a chance to speak, Damon's gaze was on her. He shook his head slightly, just barely.

_Don't do anything._

"Don't fucking look at her, you sorry pile of garbage," A soldier bellowed, before kicking Damon in the side of the head.

Elena yelped acutely and fainted straight away. Tyler Lockwood caught her before she hit the ground. Damon watched helplessly as she was pulled into Tyler's murderous arms and taken from the room. It wasn't until he was sure that she was out of hearing range did Damon let out a guttural moan.

Matthew stood in front of Damon, staring down at him. He signaled a soldier who then lifted Damon to his feet. A faint sizzling sound could be heard throughout the room. Matt cocked his brow and peeked slightly behind Damon who swayed slightly like a drunk.

"I know what you are," Matthew said matter-of-factly.

"Obviously," Damon said through gritted teeth.

"Up until this moment, I wasn't quite sure that I believed it myself. Yet here you are—your hands are bound with a lovely vervain wreath. And your flesh is burning. And here," He gestured with his fingers, "I can see your veins have become more pronounced."

Damon grunted in response.

Matthew's eyes glittered as he stared into Damon's, his gaze drifting briefly over his mouth.

"I knew there was something…other-worldly about you. I was drawn to it."

Damon smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He gave Prince Matthew a leering gaze from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet and back again.

"That wasn't what you were drawn too," He said coolly.

He watched as Matthew's adam's apple bobbed nervously before lifting his eyes to the guards.

"What I can't understand is what you had to gain from all of this? Or do we already know," Matthew wondered aloud.

Damon said nothing.

Matthew gave a half nod and sighed dreamily.

"See to it that he is properly shackled. We will deal with him back in Sofia. I have no time for French diplomats and Parisian politics to try and intervene in Bulgarian matters."

Damon's eyes darkened, staring into Matthew's cornflower blue gaze. They didn't leave his until he was pulled out of the room.

* * *

**One hour later.**

Elena woke inside of the train car cabin. The muffled rumble of the train wheel across the tracks was what eventually stirred her into consciousness. The room was darkened slightly by the taupe curtains over the train windows. Matthew sat across the cabin in a plush chair, his elbow propped on the arm rested with his chin resting on his fist. His expression was somber, contemplative, as he stared across at Elena's waking form.

Elena pushed herself slowly into sitting position, her back against the wall and her feet dangling off the small bed. She peeked behind the curtain and saw the landscape travel quickly passed her.

"Where are we going?"

"Home, dear wife," Matthew said quietly.

Elena cast her eyes downward, staring at her hands—hands that had hours before had roamed the topography of Damon's body. They began to shake.

"Where is he?"

Matthew said nothing for a long moment, instead staring at Elena intently.

"I want you to tell me what happened the night you were taken," He demanded, his voice painted with authority.

"I don't…I don't remember much of that night," She said, rubbing her thumb across her palm.

"Start from the ball and work your way forward," He said.

Elena took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Fear and worry crept into her senses. What if Damon had given a different account of that night? Could her words be his death sentence? Was he already dead? The idea was horrifying.

"We danced…you and I…" She began.

"…as did you and the Count," Matthew interjected.

Elena's eyes met his briefly before looking away again.

"Yes," She paused. "We mingled with our guests and I had a few glasses of wine. After the ball, I made my way to your bed chamber and that was when I saw you…"

"I remember," He said, his eyes growing intense. "Do you?"

"Yes," Elena whispered.

Matthew shifted in his seat, running his hand over his mouth before resting his chin in his hand.

"Tell me," He said insistently.

"You asked me what I saw," She began. "And then you pulled me into the room…"

Elena closed her eyes.

"We kissed," She continued, "and you told me I was never to wear my dress again. You tore it apart in your hands."

Matthew sighed, saying nothing.

"We," She said quietly, "…you bedded me. Then quite soon afterwards, I took my leave. I went to my room and then…then I don't remember a thing."

"Mmhmm."

Matthew's hand uncurled from around his chin and rested on his thigh, picking at imaginary lint.

"Tyler Lockwood came to me with some very interesting information in the wake of your disappearance." He admitted.

"Tyler Lockwood is a loathsome creature that crawls on his belly for scraps of praise. I'd take caution at his word," She said suddenly.

Elena clasped her hand over her mouth, immediately regretful of her outburst. Where had that come from?

Matthew gave a hard, half chuckle and continued.

"Tyler is a loyal subject of Bulgaria and a trusted friend. I have no doubts about his devotion to me."

Elena felt a familiar annoyance cloud her senses. She knew full well about Tyler's "devotion."

"Do you remember what I told you before I left on my diplomatic duties," He asked her, as if she were a child.

"Your eyes are everywhere," Elena recalled aloud, her voice soft.

"Everywhere," Matthew nodded once. "So let us start first with this."

He reached into his pocket and curled an object into his fist. He flicked his wrist towards her and tossed it onto her bed sheets. It glittered, even in the muted light. Elena felt her heart quicken as she stared down at the opium rock beside her. She blinked rapidly before looking back at Matthew.

"What is it," She asked, her tone innocent.

Matthew smirked.

"You know damn well what it is—it was in your coat pocket, after all."

Elena lifted her chin.

"We're not in Bulgaria anymore, Matty. You have no control of its cultivation in other countries."

Matthew's eyes widened and he slammed his fist into the arm rest and stood. Elena visibly flinched and looked down into her lap.

"You know damn well why it was forbidden in Bulgaria. You nearly caused a scandal medicating yourself into oblivion with that rubbish. And watch your tongue—you are speaking to your King, my dear wife."

"I'm sorry, M'lord," Elena whispered.

Matthew stood over her. His hand shot out underneath her chin and he lifted chin so that she would look at him.

"The doctor examined you while you were unconscious."

Elena's eyes searched Matthew's.

"You lied about him not touching you," He paused. "Why would you do that?"

"I don't know what you…" Elena's voice died in her throat.

"Choose your words carefully. They could be your last," Matthew warned. "His seed was still lingering inside of you."

Elena shivered, thinking of the child nurturing itself inside of her belly—a child that she was truly convinced belonged to Damon. Above all, she had to protect it.

"I'm with child," She confessed, her voice barely audible.

Matthew's eyes widened. His first instinct was to swell with pride as he often did when she announced her pregnancy. It was a credit to his strong stock. That emotion deflated quite quickly.

"Are you telling me it's his," His grip tightened on her chin.

"No," Elena chirped automatically. "The child is yours My Lord."

The idea felt blasphemous. She couldn't tell him to truth, not now when she was alone at his mercy. She needed time. She needed time to think, to prepare.

"Mine," Matthew questioned.

"Yes," She said suddenly, intently. "It was conceived that night I disappeared. Its yours."

Matthew's speech died in his throat. This changed everything.

"The doctor mentioned nothing of you being in that condition," Matthew said warily.

"Then I suggest you wait a few more weeks to have me re-examined," Elena said, her voice suddenly stronger. "It is still early."

"If you're lying to me…"

"I'm not," Elena caught his gaze.

Matthew breathed in deeply and turned on his heels, leaving the room.

Elena shut her eyes, pressing her head back against the wall.

She needed time to plan her escape, and her plan to free Damon. She prayed for strength. She looked down, and realized that she was clutching the opium.

Matthew left it behind.


	33. Jeremiah

"She said she's pregnant," Matthew said, his tone hollow.

"She's lying," Tyler said automatically, folding his newspaper closed.

Tyler sat in the corner of his private car while Matthew paced the room.

"What if she isn't," Matthew ran his hands over his face.

"Did you ask her about her relationship to de la Salvatore? About what the doctor found?"

"I was getting to that! I told her about his…fluids…" Matthew's jaw twitched.

"Well?"

"Well what," Matthew exploded. "She then announced her pregnancy and that I am the father."

"You're not," Tyler retorted.

Matthew's eyes blazed for a moment.

"I took her to my bed, did I not," His gaze was fire. "I have several children to the credit of my seed. Why couldn't this child be mine?"

Tyler fell silent, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground.

"What shall you do?"

"Lock her up. Have her examined by a doctor in a few weeks time."

"And if she is with child…?"

"She'll bear it."

"Her doctor cautioned against any further childbirth, Your Grace," Tyler said softly.

"She'll bear it," Matthew's voice was firm. "And if the child born has hair the color of a raven, I'll crush its head in the palm of my hand. And then I'll kill her."

He sat on the bed and turned towards Tyler. He extended his arm towards him.

"Come," He commanded.

Tyler stood and took Matthew's hand. Matthew pulled him onto the bed and on top of him.

"I need you," Matthew sighed, before kissing him.

Tyler ran his hands through Matthew's hair.

"You have me," He whispered as he unbuttoned Matthew's slacks.

Tyler's hand took hold of the Prince's cock, massaging it to attention. He slid downward, taking him into his mouth. Matthew sighed, staring heavenward.

He appreciated the distraction, but his mind was elsewhere.

* * *

Damon was alone with his thoughts. They placed him in a fortified silver coffin. The idea amused him greatly. He could easily burst through his confines, courtesy of the Prince, and slaughter his way off of the Sofia bound train. He did not. He did not for one sole reason: Elena.

Elena was now at the mercy of Prince Matthew. If only they had left Paris as soon as he found her. If only…

Damon sighed without breath and shifted his weight slightly in a failed attempt to get comfortable. He hadn't realized the hotel was surrounded until it was too late. Elena so easily made everything else but her fall away. Damon realized it was a blessing and also a curse. Blockading her in the bathroom was all he could think of doing so that it looked as though she were still prisoner. A flimsy idea for certain, but his ideas were hampered with only seconds to spare. And now, above all else, she was pregnant. He tasted the sweet, earthy combination that mingled with her blood. It was unmistakable. Damon squeezed his eyes shut as he replayed the nights event's in his head: Elena writhing underneath him, her asking for his fangs in her throat, her blood pouring into his mouth. Frustrated, he bit into his tongue, a familiar metallic taste filling his mouth.

If he could stay alive long enough for Jeremy to reach Bulgaria, he might have a legitimate chance to fix everything. He called to his dark child and received no response. He knew that Jeremy was alive. But still, he slighted him with his silence. He wondered where he was. And he wondered if he would ever discover what happened in the Chateau Talaud.

* * *

May 8th. Sunday.

He'd turned feral.

There was no other way to describe the mania that befell Jeremy after the death of Isobel. It was beyond anger, beyond grief—it was a dark pit of wild ruthlessness. The moment that Isobel turned to ash, Jeremy lost any modicum of humanity he had left. He became the animal within and he embraced it with open arms. Armed with strength that Isobel bequeathed to him before she died, he was strong…dangerous.

After slaughtering the rest of Sir John's hired men, he took John's head and crushed it in his hands before burning it in a fire he set in the center of the vineyard. It was nightfall when the remnants of John's head turned into blackened bits of bone and crisped skin. Jeremy shed his body of his blood ridden clothes and stole away into the night, never once looking back at the Chateau where he had built so many memories. There was no pain. Vampirism had a magnificent coping mechanism for human emotion—like a switch, he could turn it off and so he did. Jeremy wandered into the wood and for two days he did nothing but pillage. He stole travelers off of the road and feasted on their fear and blood—sating every drop. No one was saved—not man, not woman, not even child. He was a predatory animal and it was instinct. He was naked, filthy and near rabid.

Jeremy cradled his body into a snug slice of moist earth, a steady flow of water from a spring washed over his body before continuing onward downstream. One arm rested over his swollen belly, the other lay outstretched, his fingers digging idly in the mud. The stream of water turned pink as it flowed over him, washing him of the blood that had all but absorbed into his pores. His gaze was half lidded as he stared heavenward. A cluster of free branches swayed there, with sunlight stealing through the empty space between them. He shut his eyes and smiled emptily, feeling the warmth of the morning as it baked on his skin.

When he felt the faint vibrations from Damon's call, Jeremy opened his eyes slightly. He grunted a passing acknowledgment to no one in particular and buried down all thoughts of Damon. Damon was nothing to him now. Jeremy was an animal and as such, he had no emotional attachment to his sire and former lover. In the distance, Jeremy turned his attention to the sound of beating hooves along the path.

His next meal was on its way.

That was all that mattered.

* * *

Damon swore silently and clenched his fists. Jeremy was deliberately ignoring him. This was a first. From the moment he had turned him and until this very moment, Jeremy had been a loyal and trustworthy companion. With nothing to do but lay in darkness, he thought of when he first encountered Jeremy…

After leaving the island of Alicudi, Damon (freshly turned) and his maker traveled Europe together. Alaric, his sire, was an arrogant and dangerous companion. He was beautiful, cruel, and ruthless. As Damon lay in the coffin, he realized he had become much like Alaric...until Elena. It almost amused him. For twenty years, they were together night and day—sharing beds, whores and meals together. It was a chance encounter with Jewish immigrant named Jeremiah in 1861 New York City that changed the course of Damon's life.

New York City was bustling with excitement. The presidential election as only weeks away and gentlemen sat in their parlors and spoke of the Lincoln-Douglas debates. The division between the North and South had begun to noticeably widen though the repercussions of that division were unknown yet even to them. Jeremy had come to American with a wave of Eastern European immigrants in search of a better life. Instead, he found himself without family and homeless in lower east side of the Sixth Ward which housed the famous Five Points neighborhood.

It was October. Damon was dressed smartly in a dark frock coat ensemble paired with high waist trousers. It was a fashionable choice favored by men throughout the mid nineteenth century. He wore a wide, elaborate cravat at his neck and a top hat atop his head. He had come here to visit an opium den. The Sixth Ward was sprinkled with opium dens, owned by the still yet small population of the Chinese. The most popular of the dens were on Mott and Pell Street. It was, as Alaric taught him in India, easy pickings for a vampire.

Damon hadn't noticed the lean young man who was standing against the wrought iron fence of the Church of Transfiguration. The young man, although, noticed him. Damon was dressed finely and walking through a neighborhood where such luxuries were rarely afforded. It was like a target to Jeremy. Jeremy had become skilled at the art of pick pocketing. The first time he stole a pocketbook, he thought his heart was going to burst from his chest. Though with every victory, his fear lessened and lessened until he had none at all. His movements were fluid, graceful. His fingers were deft. This, although, was no ordinary victim he had in his sights.

Damon smelled him, heard him as he moved close—agile as a cat. His hands may have been clever for a human, but for a vampire it was as if his hands were a clumsy child—brushing loudly against the wool of Damon's coat. Perhaps it was out of amusement but Damon allowed him to take his purse. He smiled as Jeremy walked casually in the opposite direction. This was more fun than descending on opium slaves. After Damon turned the corner he paused before doubling back. Jeremy was already out of sight but his scent was palpable. He found him, alone, at the end of dark alley. It had begun to rain—a fine mist that umbrellas and coats could not shield from. Damon had never before created a vampire of his very own. His maker forbade it. Alaric was controlling and jealous. Damon creating his own vampire legion was a power that Alaric was not willing to allow. 'Their first loyalty will always be to you,' He had said. 'I forbid it.' Those threats were lost in the mist as Damon descended upon Jeremy in an instant, his wallet falling into a puddle. Jeremy fought him with more passion than any victim he had ever encountered. Though it was still easy to overpower him, Damon felt a strange kinship to this pauper. He had a passion for survival. Jeremy punched, kicked, stabbed and head butted Damon with no result. And so there, as the thunder rumbled, Jeremiah died and was reborn anew.

When Damon first became a vampire, he realized quite rapidly that one's sexuality had no boundary. Though he had a predilection for beautiful women, he wasn't averse to beautiful men. When Jeremy awoke, he realized much of the same. They kissed like men—brutal, hard, and desperate. From that moment on, Jeremy was utterly devoted to him.

Alaric was furious. Damon sat, dripping wet, in the parlor of their rented mansion. His shoulders were sagged from the lengthy scolding he had endured for the last hour. His eyes, however, were across the room as he watched his fledgling devour their servant girl, Greta. It was a beautiful sight, a beautiful sound to hear death in her cries. Alaric paced back and forth in front of the hearth. He had met them on the porch—Jeremy less than an hour old. Alaric knew before he even saw them, he _felt_ it. And to him, it felt like betrayal. There was little that can be hidden from his sire. Damon bore the brunt of his anger with silence. He never bowed to Alaric, much to Alaric's chagrin. But he also never over stepped his bounds as his dark child…until now.

"You can't keep him," Alaric said finally.

"Keep him? He isn't a dog," Damon said quietly.

Alaric shook his head, refusing to meet Damon's gaze.

"I knew this day would come," He said.

"What day? I'm still loyal to you, Ric. This doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything," Alaric exploded, his fist crashing down against the mantle. "Look at him!"

Damon turned his gaze back to Jeremy. Greta's moans had lessened in strength, her eyes half lidded and her fingers moving strangely as her arm hung limply at her side. She was seated in his lap, one arm circled around her waist while his other was secured across her shoulders. The scent of blood was thick in the air and Damon's fangs unsheathed. He was proud.

"He's wild," Alaric said dryly.

"He's beautiful," Damon doted before turning back to Alaric. "Wasn't I wild when you first turned me?"

"You were different."

"How?"

"Do you think I just plucked you randomly and turned you? You're mistaken, my boy. I watched you on the beach. Everything about you was different. I chose you. You were meant to be my child."

"And he isn't meant to be mine?"

"Some filthy thieving simpleton from Five Points," He laughed cruelly. "Your blood lust hazed your judgment, you fool."

"You're wrong," Damon shook his head.

"Get rid of him."

"How," Damon's brow furrowed.

"You know how," Alaric's voice was ice.

Damon did know. In fact, he knew exactly where the stake was. It sat in the library desk—a weapon that was old, older than Alaric. It was stake forged by Saint Peter from the wood of tree on the shores of Lake Gennesaret. How Alaric came upon the stake, he never said. But it was there and it slew many vampires who had crossed Alaric over the centuries.

"No," Damon said softly, his voice barely a whisper.

The idea of it was distressing and he knew he could not do it.

"You'd defy me," Alaric stopped in his tracks. His eyes blazed a dark fire that turned towards Jeremy.

Faster than Damon could react, Alaric grabbed Jeremy by his neck and pulled him, with ease, into the library. Greta fell into a heap and there was much shouting from the three men. Alaric swung his arm at Damon, knocking him into a bookcase. The shelves were crushed under his weight, books collapsing to the floor. He threw Jeremy onto the desk, its legs splintering from the force of it. He yanked open the drawer and pulled the stake into his hand. He threw his hand up and begun to slam it down towards Jeremy's dead heart. It's ancient point never made contact. Damon caught Ric in his arms, a fragment of shredded mahogany from the bookcase thrust into his back and through his heart. He turned to ash in his embrace, his eyes wide with shock.

"Loyal, you say," He smirked, his voice a bare whisper before disintegrating.

Damon too was shocked as he sat on the floor of the library. Everything had happened so fast and then it was over. It _had_ changed everything. In that fraction of an instant, Damon made a decision that never even entered his mind before. Alaric was gone by his hand. Did he regret it?...No, he realized. He didn't.

Jeremy pulled him up then—a symbolic gesture that was the essence of their bond. His hands cupped Damon's face, his eyes still dilated from the excitement.

Damon chose Jeremy over his own maker. He chose his child. He chose his own future on his terms, not governed by his jealous sire.

They never looked back. Soon they left New York and traveled much of New England. Jeremy was utterly devoted to Damon. In fact, some nights Jeremy would even profess his eternal love towards him. They were lovers and confidantes for several years—sharing everything, including other lovers. It was a simple time for them. Eventually, they transitioned organically into just confidantes—the lure of one another had worn off in the physical sense. Damon had met Katherine in 1864 and from then on, Jeremy and he were strictly the closest of friends.

Damon couldn't say why he chose Jeremy to be his dark child. But he knew—he _knew_ that it was meant to be. Damon considered him his platonic soul mate and it cut him deeply that Jeremy was now slighting him.

"I need you," He whispered aloud, "more than I've ever needed you before."

Miles away, amongst freshly dead bodies, Jeremy wept.

As he had fed upon his latest victim, he became overwhelmed with memories from his past with Damon. They were memories he could no longer deny. He loved Damon—as a friend, a mentor and yes, even as a lover once.

He looked down at himself—naked, dirty.

He had to clean up. He had to get to Sofia.

His sire had called to him. He was waiting.


	34. Faint

May 8th. Sunday.

Elena woke with motion sickness. It was dark, midnight, and they were a day into the journey back to Sofia. She would be home in less than six hours. She marveled, briefly, about how swiftly she traveled back home by train when her journey to France had been much longer. Her anxiety in conjunction with the rocking of the train car had her standing over a basin. She tried to calm down and relegate her breathing. She didn't want to lose was little she had eaten of her dinner. She wore a thin peignoir that tied at her waist. Her hair was pulled back from her face and her face was plain, pale. She then sat down in a nearby chair, dizzy.

It was at that moment that Matthew stumbled into her train car, slamming the door loudly behind him. Elena jumped up and placed a hand over her chest.

"You gave me a fright," She breathed.

Matthew looked up, trying to adjust to the darkness. He swung his face towards the sound of Elena's voice.

"Elena," He asked.

"Your Grace?"

Matthew moaned aloud.

"What are you doing in my train car?"

"…You're drunk," She realized aloud. "And this is my car, Your Grace."

He stumbled in the darkness and removed his coat and shirt. He fell onto the bed in an indecorous heap.

"I drink as I please. Every car is my car. I'm the Prince," He muttered, pulling the blanket over his legs. "Come."

Elena was frozen in her seat.

"Now," He commanded, lifting his head for emphasis.

Elena walked towards him slowly, standing beside the bed. Matthew's arm shot out, gripping her wrist as he yanked her in bed beside him. Elena cried out but quieted quickly, as he made no further move towards her. She laid stiffly beside him, staring upward in the darkness. She wanted to leave, to be alone—she wanted to think about what she was going to do when back in Sofia. Instead she lay awkwardly beside her husband—as strange and cold as it had ever been. His hand moved over her suddenly, resting against her abdomen. He leaned in, the spicy scent of whiskey filling Elena's nostrils. His fingers dug into her skin lightly, threateningly.

"If it's his," He said darkly, "I'll kill it. And you."

"It's not," She managed to whisper.

Elena's heart was beating so fast that she thought she was going to scream. She then stayed silent, willing herself to calm. She didn't fall asleep for hours. How could she? Matthew though, was asleep within minutes, his hand never leaving her stomach.

* * *

**Six hours later**.

"It's too tight, Your Grace," Elena rasped as Matthew clumsily tied the stays of her corset the following morning.

Matthew's jaw twitched as he tied the laces tighter. Elena braced her hand against the door frame of her private train car. Her breath was taken from her lungs and her ribs compressed as he pulled in the cord again.

"I'm not one of your ladies—be content that I can do this at all," He knotted the laces and pushed her away. "Had I known I'd find you so quickly, I would have bought you a Parisian servant so I wouldn't have to deal with such trifle tasks."

"My sincerest apologies that my liberation has inconvenienced you."

"Mind your tongue," Matthew said shortly.

Elena sighed quietly and placed a protective hand across her belly. She felt nauseated and couldn't wait to be off of the musty train. Morning sickness, she told herself. She remembered quite well what she medicated herself with last time…it was situated awkwardly in her slipper. It comforted her—like a security blanket. Elena moved to grab a plain jade dress to slip over her corset.

"No," Matthew said loudly, taking the dress from her hands.

"What," Elena squeaked, alarmed.

"I won't have you meeting Sofia in rags. Here—" He pulled a dress from the closet. "Wear this."

It was crème colored, virginal. The sleeves were puffed and at the elbows and shoulders were ribbons. The neckline was in a delicate v-shape, sweetly decorated with small lace embellishments. It fit her like a dream and made her look the picture of innocence—a victim liberated from the mouth of a hungry lion. Elena slid it out without a word and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked tired, gaunt.

"Where did you get this," She asked.

"Tyler purchased in Paris."

Elena's jaw set as she slid the dress over her corset. She stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long moment. She stared at herself so long that her features started to look alien.

"Where is he," She asked, monotone.

Matthew's attention snapped from the buttons of his jacket to the back of Elena's head.

"Miss him do you," He said sourly.

Elena blinked, her eyes still on her reflection.

Matthew came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. He too now watched her in the mirror.

"What happened when you left Sofia," He asked.

"I can't remember…" She whispered.

"You will remember," Matthew said simply, "If I have to stick a knife in your belly to do it." He kissed her cheek then and smiled. "But not now—now you will wave to your subjects as they welcome your homecoming. Then, you will go home and see our children. You do remember them, don't you?"

Elena closed her eyes, tears snaking down her face. _Her babies…_

"Kyril doesn't ask for you," Matthew continued casually. "Xia has begun to cling to Anna as if she were her Mother."

Elena's breath in took sharply and she tried to pull away.

"Please..."

"No," Matthew's arms tightened around her. "You will hear this. Matthew still asks for you—I will give you that. Why the boy has any devotion to you at all, I couldn't say. You know how children can be. But he asks less and less these days. How does that sound to you? Perhaps that's what you wanted. Perhaps you wanted to cavort around with that monster and lay in his bed like a whore."

"No…" Elena whispered.

"No is right," Matthew said dourly. "You will learn to be a damned mother. No more of your drunken tirades or opium induced mania. Oh yes—I've heard all about them and it disgusts me. Conduct yourself accordingly, madam, or I'll see you severely punished."

His hand went to her stomach again, his eyes hard as stone.

"And you know I mean it," He said lethally before kissing her cheek and pushing himself back.

He fixed the buttons on his jacket and gave Elena his arm.

"Shall we," He smiled.

Elena smiled weakly and took her arm in his.

It was time to put on a show.

* * *

They were in Sofia, Damon knew. He could hear the muffled cries of joy from a crowd outside of the luggage car. The sound grew louder as it vibrated through the silver coffin of his confines.

_Their Princess has returned…_

Nevermore had Damon felt so conflicted about the entire ordeal. He loved Elena, this much was true. But he wondered if he had done more harm than good to her. He had no idea how she was doing or what Matthew had in store for her.

_"Or me," He thought._

Hours ago, Damon was filled with a surge of warmth. Jeremy. Jeremy was coming to his call. All he had to do was wait and stay alive.

Fingers slid across the outside of the coffin then, whispering in their wake. A hand tapped twice against the silver.

"You alive in there," Tyler's muffled voice asked aloud.

Damon scoffed to himself.

"No," Damon said dryly. "I'm dead, you fool."

Tyler's retort was long silence.

"You'll be dead to Elena, too," Tyler finally said. "Matthew is about to give a speech of your demise in Paris."

Damon pressed his palm upward, against the taffeta lining, and imagined crushing Tyler's throat in his unforgiving grasp. He tried to keep himself from worrying how Elena would take the news. _She won't believe it. She can't._

"The only demise your lovely Prince needs to worry about," Damon said darkly, "is his own."

* * *

It was overwhelming.

Even with their guards, the crowd crushed forward. Eager hands reached outward to touch their Princess, liberated from the hands of a "mad man." Blurred jubilant faces swept by Elena as Matthew's strong arm led her forward through the sliver of space between the throng of people.

The opium rock in her slipper, with all of her movement, had traveled under the arch of her foot. So to compensate, Elena walked with an awkward gait. A platform had been erected at the train station in anticipation of the return of the Prince and Princess. Though many had previously known of the tumultuous relationship between Matthew and Elena, at this moment, all was forgotten. Theirs was a romantic fairytale—the Prince traveling to save his Princess from the fiendish clutches of the evil Count de la Salvatore. The Sofians knew nothing of what exactly Damon was. It was a secret kept hidden between Prince Matthew and a select few of his men. Instead, they spun a fictitious tale of Damon—a rogue Count with an appetite for murder and an even greater appetite for the Princess. It was a scandal.

Elena took the stairs of the platform slowly, carefully. A protective hand went against her abdomen briefly before she removed it in fear. Rumors were the last thing she needed now. She felt tired, weak and more than anything she craved ice water. Her mouth was dry and she bit her lip in concentration.

"_Wave,"_ She thought.

Even still, she could not will the strength to do so. She looked towards Matthew who had led them to a podium in front of the large crowd.

"Loyal subject of Bulgaria," His voice boomed. "My name is Prince Matthew Maximilian Karl Leopold Maria of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha-Koháry. I am the sovereign monarch and ruler of you and these great lands of Bulgaria."

The roar of the crowd was deafening—Elena's ears whistled strangely and it took all of her good breeding to not cover her ears with her hands. Instead she laced her fingers in front of her and led her unfocused gaze into the crowd.

_Damon…_

"I come to you today," He continued, grabbing Elena's hand, "to present to you my wife and your Princess—rescued from the jaws of evil. I come to you today to remind _all_ of my enemies that I will not be crossed."

Matthew paused for cheers.

"I will not be disrespected. I will not be persecuted into a corner. I. Will. Not. Yield. Cruelty afflicted onto my family is a direct insult as if the cruelty were delivered to me. I worked tirelessly to bring home my lovely wife, Princess Elena. And here she is! She is safe and she is home."

Matthew turned to Elena and lifted her hand upward in acknowledgment. Elena smiled weakly into the crowd before looking at Matthew and then her feet.

"I did not sleep. I did not eat. I did not falter in my conviction that we would once again be reunited. Bulgaria does not yield!"

The crowd roared in response.

_Bulgaria does not yield!_

"Yes," Matthew smiled. "You are truly my countrymen. I bid you all great thanks for all of the concern, support, and well wishes I received during the absence of the Princess. Make no mistake. I took my vengeance as I saw fit."

Elena's face turned toward Matthew. He gave her a quick glance before nodding to the crowd.

"Count Damon de la Salvatore is no more—justly slewed by my hand. He is dead. The Lord Almighty himself took my arm and pushed it forth in the name of justice!"

Elena's legs folded from underneath her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. Darkness was a blissful wave that took over almost instantly. She fainted.


	35. Royal Slave

**One week later.**

The voices were hushed, tense.

Elena's eyes opened slowly, painfully. The curtains of her bedroom were slightly open, two figures stood in front of them, talking animatedly. Elena's mouth was dry and she swallowed back. Her eyes adjusted slowly, shaking off the webs of sleep and sick. She moaned slightly as she struggled to sit.

Matthew had been talking at length with their royal physician. An examination did confirm the pregnancy of Princess Elena as well as a tentative estimation of the date of conception. Part of Matthew was slightly disappointed. He had expected validation for his suspicions. He had meticulously mapped out his plan of vengeance and it was all for naught. Little did he know, though, that Elena had been with Damon and John within the same time frame. Along with the confirmation of her pregnancy, Matthew was also delivered a rather stern warning from their doctor.

"I don't think you quite grasp how dangerous this pregnancy is to the Princess," He said.

"Are you trying to advise me, the Prince of Bulgaria, to terminate my wife's pregnancy? To essentially murder one of my royal heirs?"

The Doctor blinked rapidly, suddenly silent.

"No, I…" He trailed off for a moment. "She must stay on bed rest. It is very important that she not over exert herself. It could prove fatal to the fetus…and the Princess."

Matthew rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please. She'll be fine. But I shall heed your advice, Doctor. She'll stay on bed rest."

The Doctor nodded and it was then that their attention was averted to Elena, who had finally rid herself from the confines of a restless sleep.

"You're awake," Matthew said smoothly, walking towards the bed. "Did you hear that? The Doctor wants you on bed rest."

Elena blinked and nodded.

Bed rest. How could she find Damon if she wasn't supposed to move? Then she remembered.

_Count Damon de la Salvatore is no more—justly slewed by my hand. He is dead._

She watched as Matthew all but pushed the Doctor out of the room.

"How are you," He asked formally, walking towards the bed.

"Is he dead?"

Matthew's face hardened and she watched how his jaw twitched.

"What if he is? What then?"

_Dead. Blue eyes turned to ash._

Elena said nothing; her heart was hammering in her chest.

"Personally," Matthew said aloud, "I doubt you're as sick as everything seems to think you are. You were fine when I found you. So, I've had enough with this act. The Doctor kept you sedated with laudanum, so beyond the drowsiness…"

_Damon, are you out there? Are you alive? Is Matty lying?_

"Is he dead," Elena asked again, blinking back tears.

"I'll have no more talk of him. Besides, we have much pleasant activities to entertain ourselves. You're home now with me, where you belong."

A bird flittered onto the window sill of her bedroom. It was yellow, small. Golden Oriole. What Elena wouldn't give to be a bird—to fly away. Fingers whispered across her skin. She refused to remove her gaze from the window, even when Matthew turned her face to his as his lips dipped to hers. It was cold, passionless. She shut her eyes.

"I don't want you, Matty," Elena whispered.

Matthew, now shirtless, stilled on top of her for a moment. His hands slid through her hair lovingly and he kissed her temple.

"You're such a child," He cooed into her ear. "Marriages aren't built on love. Husbandly rights don't hinder on whether or not the wife wants to spread her legs for him. She just does it because that is what is expected. She does it because that is her duty to husband _and_ to her country. So you either choose to enjoy it or choose to hate it. It makes no matter."

She hated it. She hated him.

* * *

**Sofia.**

Jeremy swore to himself that once this ordeal was done, he'd never step foot into Bulgaria again. It brought him nothing but trouble and grief.

He'd called to Damon for the last three days that he had been in town and had no word of him. He wasn't dead. He would have felt it. But still…something was wrong. Something was keeping him from communicating to him and it was disconcerting.

The Royal Palace was surrounded by a low brick partition of undressed stone. It would be remarkably easy to vault across the wall if the grounds weren't crawling with guards. Naturally, since the Princess's return, security had been extremely severe. Jeremy stood in the shade of a grand oak tree a block from the palace, his back pressed lazily into the bark. He pulled a rolled cigarette from his pocket case and smoked thoughtfully as he studied the grounds.

"Where are you, Damon," He said between puffs. "I'm here."

* * *

"It was like fucking a dead body," Matthew shivered. "Her skin was cold enough."

He took a sip of bourbon from his glass and stared out of the window.

"Then why did you do it," Tyler asked.

"To prove a point," Matthew said shortly. He waived his hand dismissively. "I don't expect you to understand. You don't have a wife. You might have, if you hadn't gotten so hasty."

_Vicki._

"I didn't meant to hurt her," Tyler said softly.

"Mmmyes," Matthew took another drink, "Her crushed windpipe was quite the indication of your gentle nature."

"What do you intend to do," Tyler changed the subject.

Matthew shrugged nonchalantly.

"Either she'll learn to accept me or…" He drifted off. "I cared for her once. She charmed my mother which was a feat unto itself. She was bright and lovely and," He shrugged, "She changed. Nothing was ever enough. She dared to ask me if I'd been faithful. This was before Matthew was born." He laughed dryly. "Misery. Always misery with her. But regardless—she is my wife. I will bed her as often as I choose."

Tyler watched Matthew keenly.

This was the man he loved—a cruel, vain and beautiful man.

"I meant what do you intend to do with Damon…?"

Matthew smiled into his glass.

"He took her," He said shortly. "He took her from me and debased her. It sickens me. I had my good doctor inject him with vervain. He hasn't moved in days. I'll rebuke him accordingly and have him executed when I decide that his punishment is just."

Matthew lifted his glass and clinked it to Tyler's.

"Cheers!"

"Cheers!"

* * *

He was cold, weak. In his cell, he heard sickening moans that would not end.

_'Poor bastard,'_ thought Damon.

It took days for him to realize the moans came from his throat. It took several more to realize that he was under the incapacitating influence of vervain. _Verbena_. The Ancient Roman word sounded like a curse from Alaric's lips the first time Damon heard it.

_"Verbena," He spat. "Juno's Tears. Devil's Bane. That is your Achilles' heel, Damon. All beings—supernatural or otherwise, have a weakness. It will do you well to familiarize yourself with yours."_

It was then that Alaric's gloved hand pressed a charming violet flower bud into his chest. It burned in an ungodly fashion. His skin seared like meat over a fire. Damon had screamed in anguish in a way that he never had before. From that day forth, he remembered Vervain and inwardly hissed at the mere mention of its name.

There were no flowers pressed against him now, however. The advancement of medicine brought forth the ability to extract essential oils from flora. This was more dangerous that flower petals pressed to skin. This was the very essence of the blossoms being inserted into his body. It traveled through his vampire veins. His blood pushed itself through his circulatory system, moving on its own accord without assistance of his un-beating heart. And it burned in a way that he could not articulate.

He laid immobile in a cell beneath the Royal Palace. Here, there was no light and no sound—save the methodical drip of stagnant water from the ceiling to the stone floor. It was so dark that if Damon hadn't been bequeathed with vampiric vision, this cell would have been a tomb. Every morning at sunrise, a light tread of footsteps echoed across the dungeon. The sound grew louder until it was at his cell. A small man, a doctor perhaps, would inject Damon with vervain and disappear into the darkness while Damon writhed in a fog of pain.

On this day, though, the doctor did not come. Perhaps the doctor had something else in store for him, Damon couldn't say. But on the seventh day of his imprisonment, Damon received no vervain. He awoke.

When his eyes opened, they dilated to the darkness almost instantly. His bed was a stone slab covered in a thin, rough sheet of burlap. Imbedded in the stone were manacles, which held his wrists in a firm grip. He was naked, swollen and frail. His legs were free and he shuffled them weakly to and fro, pain ricocheting through his nerves. Damon grunted softly and bit down as he wriggled his toes and bent his knees to loosen the joints. His fangs sheathed wearily. He shut his eyes for a moment and turned his head, gazing through the darkness. The cell was small, no larger than eight feet by eight feet. It was fortified with thick slabs of brick and large bars in lieu of a door.

Damon had no concept of time in this space. It was a dank place that reeked of death. Damon could smell the lingering perfume of old blood. His fangs unsheathed with an incredible pang of hunger.

_Where are you, Damon. I'm here._

He nearly cried out with joy. It was as if Jeremy was in the room with him. He had to be close. He was here. A tiny flicker of hope spread across Damon's chest. He might get out of here after all.

_I'm in some sort of fucking torture chamber. I don't know where. Can you feel me nearby_?

Damon waited a beat—hoping Jeremy would respond.

_Yes. I feel you. I'll find you. Conserve your strength._

Damon closed his eyes with relief. He paused a beat and then…

_Elena?_

There was no response from Jeremy for a long moment. He felt himself tense, his limbs began to shake uncontrollably. What happened? Was she okay? The baby…?

_She's in the Palace. We'll talk more when we meet. Be safe, brother._

Damon felt a pressure deflate from his chest. Relief. Just then, his attention was diverted to the sound of footsteps.

_Hurry._

* * *

"Good," Matthew smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "You're awake."

Matthew stood in front of Damon's cell, his hands clasped casually behind his back. Beside him was Tyler, carrying a large torch that illuminated the dark dungeon with an bright orange glow. Matthew gestured towards the door and Tyler procured a key, opening it.

Matthew took the torch from Tyler and walked into the cell, placing it in a mouted fixture at the wall.

"Leave us," Matthew said over his shoulder.

Tyler's cool gaze turned alarmed as he turned to Matthew.

"Your Grace," He asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

Matthew turned his face back towards him.

"Leave now."

Tyler paused a heartbeat, looking at Damon, before he bowed.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Matthew watched as Tyler walked down the corridor, his footsteps growing lighter and lighter until he heard nothing at all. He then turned back to Damon, tilting his head as he stared at him.

"Seven days in a insufferable hole and you still look like a God," He remarked cooly.

Damon said nothing, though his eyes were pained, their gaze never leaving the Prince.

Matthew brushed imaginary dust off of the burlap sheet beside Damon and sat down near his thighs.

"Do you have anything you'd like to say," Matthew asked.

Damon watched Matthew for a long moment before speaking.

"Do you know that, even now, I could wrap my legs around your scrawny neck and snap it so fast that your head would seperate from your body."

Matthew chuckled.

"No need for empty threats, Salvatore. Killing me would accomplish nothing. You'd still be chained to a rock in an underground dungeon. Eventually, my men would find me."

"Your men," Damon asked, "Or your lover?"

A smile spread slow across Matthew's features.

"Lover. Loyalist. It makes no matter," He paused. "Did you suppose I'd feel threatened of your knowledge of who I take into my bed?"

Damon rolled his eyes, saying nothing.

"Speaking of my lovers," Matthew leaned forward, his hands drifting over Damon's face. "Can you smell yours?"

A small wave of scent drifted into Damon's senses. _Cloves. Bourbon. Cologne. Roses. Elena. Elena. Elena._

His eyes dilated further and his teeth unsheathed so quickly that it was painful.

Matthew leaned back, a small smirk on his lips.

"I would have thought you'd smell her as soon as I walked into your cell. I'll excuse you-only because you've been heavily drugged for a week. Tell me...how does she smell...to a vampire?"

Damon's hands shook, his fingers curled into a fist.

"I can imagine," Matthew continued. "that she smells quite like...Perfection. Yes. Perfection. Rose water. Lemon Cakes. And right now, I'm sure you can catch the scent of her sweet little cunt."

Before Damon could even stop himself, his legs shot out clumsily towards Matthew, knocking him across the room. The sound was thick, solid. Matthew grunted and laid still on the floor for several beats before letting out a shaky chuckle. Damon yanked at his chains, the metal biting into his skin.

Matthew stood and dusted himself off.

"Did I offend you, Count," Matthew asked sweetly, his eyes transforming from mild fear back to calm. "Good."

"What do you want," Damon said between gritted teeth.

"Why did you kidnap my wife," Matthew asked. "What did you want?"

Damon stared at the stone ceiling as Matthew began to pace the room.

"There was no ransom note. I recieved no word of demands. So why did you take her?"

Matthew settled back against the bars for a moment.

"Or was it her you wanted," Matthew asked before laughing. "My sweet little wife. Did you think that you could just steal her away from me? She belongs to me. She belongs to Bulgaria. I own her."

Damon swung his head towards Matthew.

"You don't fucking own any part of her," He spat.

"Is that what she told you?" Matthew laughed. "Oh, I own her. I own her mind, I own her soul. I own those slender fingers and those long legs. I own those dainty feet that she dances on. And I even own that tight little sheath between her legs. I own it all. She belongs to me."

Matthew's voice had raised significantly. He pulled out a dagger from his waist and walked towards Damon, putting it under his throat.

"I had her this morning," He said softly. "She spread her legs for me like an eager whore. She moaned my name and thanked the Lord himself for my royal cock that was buried inside of her. That's my child she's carrying in her womb, sir. It was my seed that quickened there. My child."

He slid the blade softly across Damon's neck-ear to ear.

"You came into Sofia with a smile that hid lies and deceit. You played the wrong hand to the wrong Prince, my friend," Matthew paused for a long moment. "I know you fucked her."

The point of the dagger slid down his chest and stopped at his belly. Matthew held the hilt firmly and pushed deep. The blade penetrated through Damon like a sword through a cloud. Smooth, sure. Damon groaned, his eyes widening. Blood bloomed around the blade, creating red rivers that slid down his skin and into the burlap. Matthew twisted the knife half of a turn and leaned foward. His face was so close that if Damon hadn't felt dizzy, he could have bitten his neck. Damon arms shook violently, the pain spreading from his abdomen and through his body. Matthew pressed a kiss, softer than the brush of a feather, on Damon's lips.

"I'll leave this here as a reminder of your miscalculation."

He straightened and moved back, taking the torch from the wall.

"See you soon," He winked before moving out of the cell and locking it behind him.

Damon writhed in agony, his eyes were slits as he stared at the dagger that was plunged to the hilt inside of him.

Darkness washed over him, his body providing the only comfort it could give.


	36. Hope

A/N: I'm a bad author, I know. It's been a while. Life has been crazy and my muse was dead. BUT! TVD has stared once again so I'm hoping to be inspired. Thank you so much to every one of you that has stuck with me on this.

* * *

Matthew's seed had long dried against Elena's thighs as she lay in bed-alternating between quiet sobs and utter silence. The level of contempt she felt for her husband was immeasurable. Her fingers spread across her belly and she sent a silent apology to the child growing within her. She knew now that this child would grow amongst Matthew's cold absence and her infinite despondency. It was foolish to think she could have ever given it anything different. Perhaps, if Matthew had never found her it could have been different. Perhaps…

She thought of the opium rock that she had tucked away in her slipper before she fainted. She wished for it more than ever yet had no idea where it could possibly be now. There was no solace to be had. None. Except…

Elena's eyes drifted to the window. The Golden Oriole had long flown away into the brilliant sunlight of the day. She stared at the window latch.

_If I jumped, we'd be free…_

Just then, Caroline and Bonnie entered the room with servants trailing behind with a large copper tub. Elena lifted her head listlessly as she watched them pour pail after pail of scalding hot water into it. The steam rose, curling into the air before disappearing. After the tub was filled, Bonnie and Caroline ushered out the servants and closed the door for privacy. With hushed words of encouragement, they pulled Elena from the bed and placed her in the tub.

She sat silently, blinking every now and again, and said nothing. Bonnie and Caroline traded looks but continued as if this were any ordinary day. The chirped about recent happening in court and paid compliments on the fairness of the Elena. They soaped her hair and dabbed the bathwater with rose oil. They cleaned her nails and rubbed her feet. When Elena was assisted out of the tub she was pink, clean and fresh. Though she was on bed rest, they dressed her in a lemon chiffon peignoir with a thin matching silk chemise underneath. They brushed her hair with a soft bristle brush until it dried and shone like a dark river—waves drifting down her collarbone.

It was near lunch time by the time it was all said and done and so her ladies had lunch brought to them. A large, gilded overbed table was pulled into the room and settled above Elena's bed. This was familiar as she was often bedridden during pregnancy. A large porcelain teapot came first, filled with fresh Red Raspberry Leaf Tea. Soon the table was filled with teacakes, fruit, croissants, and many of Elena's other favorite foods. Her tea sat in her bone china cup until it chilled and soon, the room was filled with silence. Elena's sat quietly, her hands in her lap.

Caroline watched Elena for a long moment and sighed as she tilted her head.

"Princess—you must eat something. Anything."

Elena blinked.

"If not for you," She continued, "Then perhaps for the child that's growing inside of you."

_We'll be gone soon enough, joining Damon in the afterlife—my child and I._

Elena's gaze moved then, slow and almost mechanical, until it reached Caroline.

"I fainted," She said quietly.

Caroline looked at Bonnie and then back to Elena.

"Yes," She nodded. "You did. Though, you were under a terrible strain…"

"What happened to my belongings?"

"Your Highness?"

"My belongings," Elena repeated, her eyes suddenly becoming more animated. "My things. My slippers. Where are my slippers?"

"I…"

Elena slapped her hand on the table, the china rattling excitedly.

"Here," Bonnie chirped. "You were brought into the Palace from the train station. Your effects were brought as well."

"There was a rock in my shoe. Where is it?"

Both of her ladies looked away, saying nothing.

"Answer me!"

"I…" Bonnie started shakily. "It fell onto the floor as I took off your shoes, Princess. My Prince was right there, I…"

_Matthew has my Opium._

"Get out," Elena demanded, suddenly exhausted.

Neither lady moved until Elena swept her arm across the table, knocking precious crystal and china to the floor with a shattering crash. They both jumped up and began to pick up the shards.

"No," Elena said. "Leave it. Get out."

Bonnie rushed from the room like a woman possessed. Caroline, though, moved slower. She gave Elena a pitying look before walking towards the door. As she stood in the frame, she paused and turned back.

"He isn't dead," She said softly.

Elena's eyes snapped to Caroline's like lightning.

"What," Elena couldn't breathe.

_Damon!_

Caroline's hand unclenched and one finger extended, pointing downward.

_The dungeon._

She then lifted her finger over her lips before turning around again and closing the door behind her.

* * *

May 30th.

The body of a vampire was a strange and magical thing.

Damon's skin burned through the night and the nights that followed. He again alternated between a confusing consciousness and a dream world filled with unimaginable horrors. Every now and again, he felt the presence of Jeremy. But even still, he remained in his prison.

He might have cried out for Elena, for Jeremy or even for God. He had no way of knowing. It was an unspeakable delirious horror of vervain, of the dagger in his stomach, and of a hunger that had remained unquenched since Paris. He was starved, so very starved. And after three weeks of imprisonment, Damon hazily thought that Matthew intended to starve and torture Damon until he was nothing left but a weak husk of a vampire. As every day ended and another begin, the thought loomed closer and closer to a reality. A vampire could only go so far before he wasn't able to come back to his normal mental capacity. He would be mad, his body would be frightening.

It was at the end of the third week that a small measure of relief came—but not without Damon's reservations.

Tyler Lockwood accompanied the Royal Physician to the dungeon. The man was older. He walked with a limp and his posture was slouched. With him, he carried a small cage. It took Damon the span of a delirious millisecond to realize that inside of the cage were very small, very frightened rats. The doctor procured the animal from its confines by its tail and dangled it above Damon's mouth. In an instant, Damon's fangs dug into the soft belly of the animal and the small nourishment of its blood only made Damon all the more hungry. For the next 30 minutes, Damon was given rat after rat until his face was flushed and his muscles grew taut underneath his skin. Soon, he was able to open his eyes without pain and his vision begun to clear. Damon slowly flexed his fingers, stretching his limbs to and fro.

"You may leave," Tyler said to the Physician.

"Please be aware that even in this state, he is very dangerous," The Doctor cautioned.

"Believe me, sir, I am very aware. Thank you."

Tyler paced the room quietly until the footsteps from the doctor had grown silent. He watched Damon, tapping his fingers on his chin. After a long moment, he advanced towards him and put his hand on the dagger's hilt. Damon's body tensed, anticipating the forthcoming pain. Instead, Tyler pulled the dagger out from Damon's belly and sheathed it at his waist. He watched as Damon's nerves and muscles twitched as they began to reconnect to each other. Soon, there was nothing but smooth skin where the wound had been.

"You're a product of Satan," Tyler said quietly.

Damon smiled blandly.

"God gave you Satan which gave you me. Honestly, I'm more of God's creation—if you'd really like to get into this debate." Damon said, closing his eyes.

"I don't…"

"Why are you here…?"

Tyler sighed deeply, slowly.

"I don't know."

Damon narrowed his eyes slightly, saying nothing.

Tyler paced slowly.

"Let me preface by saying that I absolutely detest you. I think you're a horrid. You're not a man. You're a monster."

"Thank you?"

"But," Tyler interrupted. "Something about this…it's wrong."

The silence was heavy.

"How, exactly, do you plan to right this wrong, then?"

"I'm not letting you escape, if that's what you mean," Tyler announced.

"It was worth a shot," Damon looked at the ceiling.

"…What should I do?"

"You're asking me," Damon turned back to him, incredulous. "…far be it for me to argue with you here but why the sudden change of heart."

Tyler leaned against the bars and stared down the dark hallway.

"He's changed," He sighed. "My Matty changed. It worsened when he came back from his tour. And you…"

"…caught his eye," Damon asked, smirking.

"Bewitched him," Tyler's jaw twitched. "Then you took his wife-taking anything from him gets him vexed. I won't put on airs for you, sir. I know you are aware that the Prince and I are lovers. I…I love him quite deeply."

"Hence your murderous rage to the fair Vicktoria?"

Tyler's shoulders slumped significantly.

"I didn't mean to. She just…she angered me," He paused, "She scared me. Wouldn't you do anything to protect someone you loved?"

Damon stayed silent.

"I regret it," Tyler continued. "I know she was fond of me. But I…at that moment it felt hopeless. She backed me into a corner and I lashed out. But this isn't about me. I actually feel remorse, I feel regret. And Matty…it's quite peculiar but I don't think he feels those things any longer. He's colder now, you see?"

Damon rolled his eyes.

"He is angry, always angry. And when we make love…well…it's not like those first beautiful years. We used to sit under fruit trees and read poetry—I'd kiss the juice of his chin and we would make love for hours…"

"I understand," Damon said quickly, slightly irritated at Tyler's simpering and sudden overshare. "He's different. What does that have to do with me?"

"My Matthew? He wouldn't have done this," Tyler gestured to the knife in his belt. "It's barbaric. My Matthew would have called a proper trial. Then you would have been executed humanely."

"Ah yes, such wonderful options for me," Damon said incredulously.

"You're a monster," Tyler said. "My chivalry, though, dictates you should be civilly and in accordance with proper law. It's only right."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"They say you have magic…magic in your eyes."

Damon said nothing.

"...they say you can make a man do anything you ask of him."

"So?"

"Can't you return him to the man he once was? Can't you tell him to be the kind, beautiful man before this marriage turned him so bitter and twisted?"

"He takes vervain," Damon shrugged lightly. "As much as I'd love to return your paramour to you and reignite your romance, I can't. I can't compel someone with vervain on them or ingested."

"What if he stopped ingesting it," Tyler whispered.

Damon's ears perked.

"When that happens, we'll talk."

Things might not be so hopeless after all.


	37. Threads

'What have I done,' Tyler thought to himself as he left the dungeon.

A bloom of panic was settled in his chest and it would not yield. He had been out of sorts ever since he met that mysterious man at Aleksandra's Sporting House in Slaveykov Square the night prior. After a particularly difficult last few days with Matthew's sporadic affection, Tyler had taken solace in scotch and good conversation.

_One Day Ago._

_"You're a particularly difficult man to track down."_

_Tyler looked up from his newspaper and came face to face with a smartly dressed, handsome man. There was something quite familiar about it but he couldn't quite put his finger on it._

_"I apologize, friend, but do I know you?"_

_The man smiled and looked down before looking back up again at Tyler. His beautifully lashed eyes were dark but they seemed kind. His smile was warm as he removed his hat. Tyler couldn't help but notice how attractive he was. He smiled back._

_"We've travelled the same circles," The man smiled, his eyes lingering for a half second on Tyler's lips._

_Tyler swallowed, slightly uncomfortable if slightly interested._

_"Is that so?"_

_"Mmhmm…"_

_The gentleman sat across from him, crossing his legs at his knee. He produced a cigar from his coat pocket and offered one to Tyler, which he happily accepted._

_Tyler slid the cigar underneath his nose._

_"Ah, you are now indeed destined to become a good friend of mine," He joked._

_The man laughed._

_"You may change your mind in a moment," The man mused._

_"Oh," Tyler asked halfheartedly as he snipped the edge of the cigar._

_"My name is Jeremy—I am a trusted servant of Damon de la Salvatore."_

_Tyler blinked, his hand frozen in midair, the cigar now limp in his fingers._

_"Don't scream," Jeremy said smoothly, quietly. "Or I'll have to crush your windpipe and that would undo weeks of work."_

_Tyler fell back against his chair, his shoulders sagging. He looked about the room, hoping to catch the gaze of someone…anyone. Queerly, the room was near empty save a rather drunk piano player tinkering keys in the corner._

_"What do you want?"_

_"Your help."_

_"I've sworn my loyalties to the Prince," He paused, "You might as well kill me where I sit."_

_Jeremy laughed quietly._

_"While that is quite noble of you, Lockwood, you are of much more use to me alive than dead. You have my good man in your custody."_

_Tyler struggled to breathe, looking down at his hands. He could run…_

_"You wouldn't even make it out of your seat," Jeremy said quietly, a hint of a smile on his lips._

_"I can't be compelled," Tyler's words tumbled out._

_"No, I suppose you couldn't," Jeremy mused, "Not unless I saw to it that your morning tea no longer be infused with vervain."_

_Tyler felt his throat close up and felt like he was about to pass out._

_"No," He whispered._

_"As I said," Jeremy continued, "This has been weeks of work."_

_"No," Tyler repeated._

_"On the contrary. Yes." Jeremy struck a match and lit his cigar._

_"But…"_

_"...How? Well, let's say that everything has been perfectly settled—like a frayed thread on a lovely garment. All I had to do was pull it just so and the entire thing began to unravel. Let's just say that the most difficult part was finding a weak link to get inside of the palace. It was difficult, but not impossible. Once you have one person under your compulsion, it's easy to use them as little mice to set up the next and the next and the next. By my estimation, most of the palace hasn't been taking vervain for weeks."_

_Without warning, Tyler pitched forward, losing his lunch at Jeremy's feet._

_Jeremy frowned, disgusted._

_"Ugh, my shoes," His tone didn't conceal his revulsion._

_"I'm sorry," Tyler mumbled, his face still downward._

_"Look at me," Jeremy commanded._

_Tyler's head stayed down, his entire body beginning to shake. He then looked up._

_"Relax," Jeremy commanded, settling back in his seat. "We'll have someone clean that up. Then, you can regale your story of the grand love of you & the fair Prince."_

_Tyler's Adam's apple bobbed. _

_"Okay."_

* * *

Tyler shook his head. He didn't want to help Jeremy, but he couldn't say no. He couldn't stop. It was as if his mouth and his movements were not his own.

_"You will not breathe a word of this encounter to anyone," Jeremy had commanded._

And so he hadn't. He tried to scream it, but the words were stuck in his throat. He wanted to write it, but instead he drew flowers. It was madness!

After Jeremy had patiently listened to Tyler's long and drawn out story of his and Matthew's relationship, he plied Tyler with _questions. What were his weaknesses? What were his strengths?_

_"Why are you asking me all of this," Tyler wiped a tear, "You will only kill us all anyways."_

_"As a wise man once said," Jeremy mused quietly, "Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster."_

"That's what I am afraid of."

"How is he," Jeremy asked.

Tyler paced about his room.

"He looked like a corpse."

"You fed him?"

"Yes—as you instructed. Why didn't you just compel someone to offer themselves to him?"

"Authorization into the dungeon is limited. If anyone went missing, it'd be noticed. It had to be rats. For now. He took to them well?"

"Yes—he was a flushed as a bride on her wedding night," Tyler snapped.

Jeremy looked up from his book, as he sat in a chair beside Tyler's bed.

"No need for that tone," He chided.

"How is it that he didn't notice my…"

"Your compulsion? Because Damon isn't at the top of his game. Look at him, for Christ's sake. He's been shackled, tortured and starved. I didn't imagine he would. In addition to that, he still is under the impression that you take vervain."

"Why don't you want him to know?"

"Because I can do this by myself," Jeremy raised his voice and stood.

Tyler winced.

"Of course."

"Now, onto more pressing matters. You mentioned before that Matthew's meals and specifically cooked by a guarded individual."

"Anna," Tyler plopped on the bed, "the governess to the children."

"Anna," Jeremy repeated. "Have I seen her before?"

"I highly doubt it. She cares for the children in private. She cooks their meals in addition to the Prince's."

"Why her?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why doesn't anyone else cook for him?"

"She has no one," Tyler shrugged. "She has no family and no friends due to the fact that she works so much. It's easier to trust someone when they have no activities outside of work. It's easier to monitor. Matthew thinks she can't be compromised. When the Princess went missing, Matty fired a great lot of people, including his chef. He trusts a scant few. So until he can find a suitable replacement, Anna does his cooking—unless he's going to massive feast or dinner. And as we all know, Vervain can stay in the system for weeks so it's not really an issue. So other than that, it's just Anna."

"Are they lovers?"

"Her," Tyler laughed. "No. Men call her a saint for a reason."

"Anna," Jeremy wondered allowed.

* * *

June 1 1898

"Mama!"

Her son's voice was so sweet that it hurt her heart. Elena's smiled as little Matthew ran into the room and threw his arms across the comforter. He was smartly dressed in his royal best, his blond hair combed to the side.

"Careful, love," warned Anna from a distance, "Your Mother is in a delicate state."

Elena closed her eyes and pressed her palm onto her son's head.

"Matty," She said softly.

God, he looked so like his father. Just then he looked up, his blue eyes shining at her as if she were a goddess. He smiled. So much like his father…

"Mother missed you," Elena smiled softly. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes!"

"Come! Give me a kiss." She demanded playfully.

Elena leaned to the side of the bed & kissed Matty soundly on the mouth. Elena smiled, her hand sofly squeezing him behind the neck. She turned to Anna & saw Xia in her hands. Also, from behind her wide skirts was Kyril.

"Kyril," Elena called, smoothing out the comforter on top of her as she struggled to sit up.

Eyes much like her own stared back at her with a mixture of awe and fear. It pained her. Her own child seemed frightened of her.

"Go to your Mother," Anna said gently, taking his hand and then guiding him forward.

Kyril took a tentative step forward and Elena reached her hand out to him. His eyes widened and in an instant, he turned about and ran from the room.

"Ky!" Anna called.

"No, no. It's…it's okay." Elena tried to sound unaffected and blinked back tears. "Here." She reached her hands out to Xia.

Anna carefully placed Xia into Elena's arms—the pity plain on her face. Elena realized she hadn't held her daughter since the day of the Prince Matthew's Homecoming Ball two months ago. It seemed like a lifetime passed. A hard ball rose into Elena's throat and she swallowed back difficultly.

"Xia," She whispered.

The baby sat quietly in her arms, staring up at her. Her dark blue eyes had lightened some and glittered into the sunshine that broke through the windows. Her chubby cheeks were rosy and her baby hair was still short. Elena's finger slid across her cheek.

"Xia," She whispered again. "My baby girl..."

She stared at her daughter quietly for a long moment, looking for signs of Matthew across her face—looking for signs of John. Elena sighed. She leaned her face to Xia and kissed her forehead.

"I love you, darling," She said softly, looking then to Matty. "I love you all."

Elena looked up, tears now stinging her eyes.

"Anna," Elena called, her voice faltering. "Please…"

Anna nodded and took Xia from her arms and called to Matthew.

"Your Mother is very tired. Let us leave her to rest."

Matthew hopped up and kissed Elena's hand before waving happily as he left the room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Elena clasped her hand across her mouth and sobbed. Her other hand rested across her abdomen.

Why did choosing one mean forsaking the other? There had to be another way.

She needed guidance, she needed Damon.

All she could do was wait. Caroline would come soon. And then, then she could formulate some semblance of a plan. She didn't care if she had to lie, cheat, steal or kill—Damon would be freed.


	38. Confidante

_A/N - Finally back from my self imposed hiatus. One of my other stories was recently deleted so Ive been a little frustrated. Regardless, here is the next chapter & I have begun writing the next. Stay tuned!_

* * *

**June 9 1898. Thursday.**

"Where have you been?" Elena tried to keep the anger from her voice.

"You sent me to Varna…" Caroline closed the door behind her. "To oversee the integrity of the silks you requested…"

"I did no such thing!" Elena was aghast.

"My deepest apologies, Princess. I was told that you had conferred this with Miss Bonnie. She confirmed it…my humblest apologies if I misunderstood."

Elena begrudgingly admitted silently that it sounded vaguely familiar.

"Never mind," She waved her hand. "Come sit with me."

Elena sat in bed, her pillows fluffed around her with a gilded tea tray settled into her lap. Her hands welcomed the warmth emanating from her tea cup, offering a tiny sense of comfort. She sighed slowly, her heart beating rapidly as Caroline settled in beside her. Elena could sense Caroline's discomfort but she didn't care. She had to know.

"Tell me," She commanded through the quiet between them.

Caroline didn't need to inquire as to what the Princess was referring to. It was written plain on her face. Count Damon de la Salvatore. She was in love with him. She was in love with him and she didn't seem to care who knew. It was a scandalizing thought. Princess Elena had everything she could have ever wanted: wealth, titles, a Prince & beautiful children. Yet she ran away with this mysterious Count who apparently was quite dastardly, if rumors were to be held with any merit.

"Your majesty," Caroline began, "If Prince Matthew ever discovered…"

"We've known each other since children," Elena interrupted, "The fact that you seem conflicted in your loyalties is…astounding."

Caroline looked up, her blue eyes wide with surprise.

"Oh Princess," She reached out and touched her hand, "Please know it's nothing like that. It's my fear that…he would have me killed. Or punish my Mother because of me. He's become rather ruthless in your absence. I fear him."

"He's always been ruthless," Elena sagged slightly. "It's his charm that fools everyone."

It was strange being so candid but Elena could not bring herself to care.

"Please," Caroline whispered as she looked over her shoulder at the door closed behind them. "Whatever happens, please don't leave me to his mercy. I beg of you. Take me with you."

"Fine. You have my word," Elena reassured her. "Please….I need to know…"

"He's in the dungeon," Caroline whispered with eyes as wide as blue saucers.

"The dungeon," Elena repeated softly.

"Yes."

Elena whimpered slightly, her hand moving across her belly.

"I have to get him out."

"No!"

Elena looked up at Caroline, shocked by her outburst.

"It's guarded. Heavily. It would be near suicide, Princess! I couldn't have your blood on my hands! We will need help."

"I need you to find out everything," Elena demanded, her grip tightening on Caroline's fingers, "I need to know who is involved in his imprisonment. I need to know who guards him. I need to know when they change duties. Everything."

"I…"

"It's too late to feign ignorance now," Elena softened. "Caroline, I love him. Do you know what it's like? To sleep beside a man you do not love? To kiss the lips of a man that hates you? I do. And it's something I've borne silently for years now. I've had his children, I've played the role of the charming Princess but to what end? He loathes me. He beds me when he's drunk, angry or when there is no one else. I am nothing in his eyes. Nothing. I cannot go on in this way. Look at me. I'm sick…weak. I tell you this in confidence…I…I don't know how long I expect to live in this body. Surely, you can see…"

Caroline learned forward and pulled Elena's head onto her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," She managed to choke out, "I did not know…I thought…"

Elena wiped her eyes and patted Caroline's leg.

"No one does. Everyone assumes I'm fine. Everyone thinks Matthew is a doting husband when the truth of the matter is that he'd much prefer Tyler Lockwood as his lover. No one save my physician knows the true toll of what illness and childbirth have done to me."

"So it's true…" Caroline began before stopping herself.

Elena lifted her head and smiled sourly before resting her head back into the pillows.

"So you understand, don't you? I must save Damon, you see, so that I may save myself."

Caroline's shoulders sagged slightly and she nodded.

"I'll see what I can find out…"

* * *

Annabelle Wu was a simple woman.

Raised in an Asian middle class family, Anna knew as early as 10 years old that she would either have to marry a wealthy man or undertake a gentile kind of employ as she couldn't imagine an infinite dependence on her family. Destiny chose the latter when her family's home and moderate income was destroyed by the death of her father and then subsequent banishment by her mother. She couldn't fault her Mother for doing so. She was a daughter-the weaker sex. Her father's income was gone. There would have been no way for her Mother to care for her. And so she left. Blessed with the rare ability to read, write & do arithmetic, Anna chose to solicit her services as a governess in Russia and then Bulgaria. Fate placed her as a Governess for the esteemed Lockwood Family. And it was there that she had become acquainted with one Tyler Lockwood.

Though it was almost ordinary for Tyler to ply her with sweet words and compliments, it didn't take a fool to see notice that his words were empty and his gaze was passionless. The feeling was rather mutual. Love was a losing battle that she had no time for. Long ago in Shanghai, there was once a boy that had caught her gaze. Finally. Unfortunately, their love was not meant to come into fruition—he died in a brawl outside of a brothel. After which, that kind of flame died inside of Anna. Her life was a different path: servitude. As luck would have it, her employ eventually transferred from the Lockwoods to the Royal Family. She imagined that her natural ability to teach was what brought her to her new position. It was in fact her lack of emotional ties with others, her quite disposition, and the recommendation from Tyler that placed her as the Royal Governess.

* * *

"I bedded Alexia," Matthew admitted one cool autumn morning.

He was seated beside a window, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along the glass.

Tyler was quiet for a long moment. He loathed hearing of his lover's exploits.

"Lexi? I hear she is quite…skilled," Tyler said cooly. And then, "When?"

"When Elena was delivering our second son," Matthew said, his voice vacant.

Tyler stood, his heart moved by the tone of Matthew's voice. He placed his hand on his shoulder and it sagged slightly under the weight. Could this be regret?

"Sometimes I…" Matthew had sighed.

"Yes?"

He felt his stiffen.

"Nothing."

And that was perhaps the closest feeling of remorse he had ever witnessed from Matthew.

"The Princess will make her life miserable," Tyler said knowingly. "Much like the last one."

"I already sent her away."

"You did what?"

"I can barely handle the outbursts of my wife, let alone a love sick governess. Find me someone who will be…adequate in that position," Matthew asked.

"I think I know just the person," Tyler brightened.

Anna was a sexless bore, he thought. She would be the perfect Governess for Matthew's children. And so Anna's employ traveled from the House of Lockwood to the Royal Family.

* * *

It was bitter winter when Anna moved into the servant quarters of the Royal Palace. The coldness, however, was nothing compared to the distrust and venom inside the palace walls.

"Are you his new whore," Elena asked as she placed Kyril into her arms.

"No…I…" Anna stuttered.

"Well if you aren't yet, you will be." She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I would never…"

"Save your breath," Elena interrupted, her words slurred, as she wandered into the solarium to lie on the floor in a haze of opium. Even the Princess's own handmaidens watched Anna with skepticism. It was a lonely existence for her then. In between taking care of the children, she occasionally assisted in service to the Princess. So it didn't take long to understand Elena's accusations. Prince Matthew was a man with many lovers—male and female. Though, to say so aloud could mean death. And so she kept to herself and kept her head down.

It took nearly two years for Princess Elena to truly feel that Anna was of no threat to the sanctity of her marriage. Anna simply had no interest in a romantic life. To be quite honest, Elena had no idea if Anna was interested in anything at all. Though, she didn't dwell on the thought long. She was preoccupied with her own issues, her own crisis. From the outside, Anna had always imagine that the royal family lived a gay, lavish life. She couldn't have been more wrong. Now more than ever did she accept her position in life—the servitude—she wouldn't trade it for anything. She had nothing else. She loved the children almost as if they were her own.

When the Princess had been kidnapped, the entire country was in an uproar. Matthew had gone nearly mad with rage, firing and having several members of the staff killed. His actions were deemed justified by much of the high court. Anna, however, thought the deaths were unjust and barbaric. Regardless, she said and did nothing. And when one afternoon, Matthew entered her bedchamber, she was sure that she was next to die.

Her eyes snapped open as soon as the knob on her door was turned. By the time he had opened it, she sat up in bed, her coverlet wrapped around her like a shield. Beside him stood Tyler, a torch held in his grasp.

Matthew said nothing for a long moment, as Anna looked downward in a show of respect. She could feel a sense of warmth at the top of her head and she was sure that was where his hard gaze had fallen.

"You will move into the Royal Apartments with the children."

Anna's face lifted suddenly.

"My lord?"

"You will continue your duties as governess. You will also be responsible for preparing my meals. I've been informed that you are handy in the kitchen," Matthew gave Tyler a quick glance.

"Yes, your highness."

"You are not permitted to leave without my sanction. You are not permitted to cook without first purchasing the ingredients yourself—Lockwood may assist you as you need. You are not permitted to take a lover as I cannot afford to allow any more interlopers into my house. You are also not permitted to talk to commoners in any capacity beyond a business transaction. You will eat and drink with your peers in the kitchen with meals prepared from the cooks. I however, will be consuming only what you cook and you alone. You must cook for me with utensils that I provide & save Lockwood, you cannot have any kind of assistance. Am I understood?

"Y-yes, your grace."

"Fine." He nodded to Tyler, who signaled for several staff members to began transferring Anna's belongings from the servant quarters to the royal apartments.

The room was completely stripped bare within the hour.


	39. Weak

**July 2, 1898**

Progress was slow, painfully slow. The emphasis on 'painfully' was felt directly by Damon, and felt often. Grace during torture wasn't one of Damon's strong suits and so he bore it with as much dignity as he could muster—which wasn't much. He knew that Jeremy was working as quickly as possible, though it was an arduous task for just one person alone. Had Isobel still been alive, perhaps advancement could have happened more quickly. Unfortunately that wasn't the case. He tried not to think of Isobel as he still felt grief and guilt for his dark child. She was gone now. It was Damon, Elena and Jeremy against the world.

If it had just been a case of Damon escaping from the dungeon, he would have done it long ago. He could have. He had so many, many occasions. It was almost hilarious how easy it could have been, despite everything—despite his pain and his weakness. He was still several times stronger than any mortal man in Bulgaria. The only thing that kept him shackled in place was his fear of Matthew's retaliation. Instinct told him that Elena would become the target of his misplaced aggression should he leave.

_Elena._

The thought of her gave life to beautiful images in his mind. He loved her now more than ever, even if he hadn't seen her in so long. How long had it been? By his estimation, it had been nearly two months since he saw her last. It had been two months since he touched her and kissed her. It had been two months since Paris. It seemed like yesterday and somehow, also like a lifetime ago. He had only just found her again, only to lose her via his carelessness. He had been so foolish, that it angered him to think about. They should have left town the moment he found her at the Moulin Rouge. Instead, she was back in Bulgaria—a relative prisoner in her own castle. She would be nearly three months pregnant now. Pregnant. He felt protective of the baby she was carrying, even though he knew in his heart that he could not be the father. It was part of Elena and because of that, he would protect it with his own life.

It didn't take long for Damon to clue in on the fact that Tyler Lockwood was under Jeremy's thrall. Tyler would often come into the dungeon either extremely morose or extremely chipper—both of which did not go without notice. Something had been…off. And then it hit him all at once: Tyler was being compelled. He had to be. There was no other explanation for the glassy eyes and the overall the strange obedience of Lockwood. After studying Tyler for weeks, he decided to asked Jeremy.

_Did you compel Lockwood, he asked silently._

_Took you long enough to figure it out, Jeremy silently replied._

Damon smiled for the first time in so long. He had hope before, but this was significant. This was the king's lover!

_You know if it was as simple as having him kill the Prince, I would have done it already_, Jeremy said after a beat.

_I know_, Damon thought quietly.

It was just too much of a risk to do something to brash. Matthew was a man that would have assurances. He would have plans in place should something suddenly become amiss. They had to proceed delicately, even if it meant Damon's torture. And tortured he was.

Prince Matthew's fascination with Count de la Salvatore had not diminished. He visited the dungeon often, administering vervain and alternating between having him beaten or taking away with little sustenance he had given to him—often they were rotten bones and scraps of animal parts. Matthew was no fool however, and several weeks back, he remarked as such.

Matthew watched as Damon's muscular chest heaved up and down, a generous amount of Vervain oil had been poured onto his chest, creating a sizzling painting of red and pink flesh.

"You are looking rather well fed for a starving man," Matthew said after a time.

"Rotten animal corpses are considered a vampire delicacy," Damon spat out in between spurts of pain.

Matthew's smile was hard.

"Evasion is a clever tactic, Count. However, I'm no fool. Someone has been feeding you. I intend to find out whom. And when I do—rest assured, they will be hanged from the gallows for treason."

Damon smiled, his gaze shifting to an uncomfortable Tyler who was resting with his back against the wall.

"You do that," He said, turning back to Matthew.

Two days later, the royal physician was beheaded.

* * *

**July 6, 1898**

It took several months, but a key victory had just been handed to Jeremy. Unfortunately for him, it felt like a punishment. The grimace on his face was evident as he cleaned an abundance of copper pots in the royal kitchen. This kind of manual labor was so far beneath him that under normal circumstances, he would have balked at such employ. Instead, he tried to have elegance under such domestic pressures as he clumsily cleaned and scrubbed.

"I haven't seen you in here before," A voice called out, "Are you the new help?"

Jeremy turned.

"The help?" He tried to keep the outrage out of his voice as he turned. Anything he wanted to say further died in his throat.

A beautiful, smartly dressed woman stood in front of him, a small smile on her lips. Jeremy turned back to his pots and cleared his throat.

"I…yes, I clean." He said shortly.

Lord, she was beautiful. Jeremy would have been a fool not to notice. Her eyes were slightly slanted, dark and stunning. Her hair was a deep brown and long but pulled back into a chignon. Even still, noticing anyone other than Isobel felt…wrong.

Annabelle Wu watched the back of his head, slightly offended that he had just given her his back.

"Well," She remarked stiffly, "Welcome."

Jeremy grunted in response, keeping his head down.

Anna began to wash a basket of produce, stealing a few glances at the mysterious man as she did so. He made no attempt to acknowledge her or have a conversation with her. It was just silence, awkward and heavy silence. After Anna had washed her vegetables, she placed them back in her basket, and began to take her leave.

She wavered in the doorway.

"Pleasure to meet you," She said formally before closing it behind her.

Jeremy turned back to where she had just stood. He looked downward before he turned back to scrubbing pots.

* * *

**July 11, 1898**

"I feel dizzy," Elena said weakly, one morning, as she stepped out of her bath.

"It's the heat, Princess," Bonnie reassured her. "We'll get you back into bed."

In the next instant, Elena's legs had folded out from underneath her. Caroline and Bonnie both reached for her, barely catching her before she fell to the marbled floor. They screamed.

"Your Grace…!"

They placed her into the floor as gently as possible.

"Help,"Caroline called out, running out of the room to fetch a guard.

Bonnie covered Elena's modesty with a thick towel, gently tapping her face.

"Elena…Princess…Wake up, please?" Bonnie's voice began to rise.

She looked towards the doorway and back to Elena.

"Caroline, hurry!" Bonnie said shakily.

Bonnie felt Elena's forehead. She was burning up. Just then, she noticed a thin river of blood traveling out from underneath Elena. Bonnie gasped sharply. The baby!

"Get the doctor…!"

Elena stirred slightly, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her face was pale and the dark circles under her eyes were so prominent, they almost looked like she'd been punched.

"Da..." She mumbled. moving slugglishly before her body again fell slack.

"Get the Prince…! Now!"

* * *

Matthew laughed as he sat over his chess board, Tyler's glass queen held between Matthew's index and forefinger.

"Are you just letting me win?"

"Now why would I do a thing like that," Tyler teased.

"Hmmm, I wonder..." Matthew flirted, reaching his hand out to touch Tyler's knee.

Just then the doors of the solarium bursted open without warning. Matthew jumped back in his seat instinctively, the queen falling from his grasp and onto the ground with a resounding crack. Anger flooded his senses instantly.

"How dare you rush in here without leave," He cried.

Caroline stumbled in, covered in blood.

Matthew stood suddenly, alarmed.

"Speak!" His voice commanded authority.

Caroline fell to her knees and looked up and Matthew.

"Your Grace...It's the Princess..." She trailed off, taking deep gulps of air.

"What about her?"

Caroline opened her mouth and then closed it again.

"I..."

He took a step forward. His first thought was that she escaped with de la Salvatore. He would have their heads...!

"If you don't answer me this instant, so help me God, I will throw you out of the window." Matthew felt his heart hammering in his chest.

"Caroline," Tyler warned as he watched her.

"It's the Princess," Caroline began to sob, "She's...the baby..."

Matthew's eyes widened in alarm and he began to take two steps at a time towards the door.

"Call the Royal Physician this instant," He called out to Lockwood over his shoulder.

"My Lord?" Tyler said suddenly. "We...he was executed for treason just last week."

Matthew stopped dead in his tracks.

"We...there hasn't been a replacement."

"And who in the hells fault is that?" Matthew screamed.

After a swift and thorough investigation that was personally handled by Tyler, Matthew was alerted to the knowledge that it was the Royal Physician who had been feeding the Count. Hence the reason Damon looked so well. Matthew was furious, beyond furious. To have such a disloyal little bastard under his employ was a great insult. Matthew had taken great pains to secure the sanctity of his home from anyone and everyone who had been or who he thought could be disloyal to him. His own physician! It was a dangerous thought. The doctor was a man of medicine-he above anyone would know how to stealthily murder someone. He above anyone would normally escape suspision. Never again. And before the sun set that day, the man was pulled from his bed and an axe was brought onto his neck.

For once in his life, Matthew was at a loss of what to do. His wife could be miscarrying his son right now. His son...! And the one doctor who knew about Elena's condition was now dead. Her condition. A wave of nausea settled into Matthew's stomach. Perhaps she'd been ill after all, he thought.

"Find one! A midwife! Someone! Anyone! Now. My son is not dying today. They have to save my son!"

Tyler ran from the room in the opposite direction.

Caroline, palms pressed into the floor, sobbed readily. She had been forgotten in the excitement. She wasn't the only one who was forgotten.

"What about the Princess," She said to no one. "What about Elena?"


	40. Folly

Tyler Lockwood was about to lose his mind. As soon as he ran out of the Royal Palace, he skidded to a stop, his heart pounding in his chest. How absolutely foolish he had been! Why, God, did he shift blame onto the physician? The poor man was nothing but a compelled pawn in this entire ordeal. On the day that Matthew ordered the investigation, Tyler was a nervous wreck. He had, with Jeremy's combined compulsion and intimidation, been responsible for the rats he gave Damon to feed off of. If his beloved Prince found out, he would lose everything…including his head.

"Prince Matthew knows something is amiss. I have been charged with discovering who is responsible for feeding de la Salvatore," Tyler confessed to Jeremy later that day.

Jeremy stood in the kitchen; his cleaver paused over a pheasant. He looked over his shoulder, an instinctive cautionary measure even though they were alone. He slammed the cleaver down, chopping off the head of the bird. Tyler jumped half a foot.

"What did you say when he announced his suspicions," Jeremy asked calmly, as he began to pluck the feathers off of the carcass one at a time.

"I said I would personally handle the investigation."

Jeremy gave a quiet, dry laugh.

"Then investigate, what do you need me for?"

"Well you…what I meant to say is…" Tyler paused before whispering quickly. "It's your fault! You've confused my mind! I've been the one feeding him. It's my life that's on the line, here."

Jeremy looked up suddenly.

"All of our lives are on the line." He remarked.

"What do I do?" Tyler asked quickly.

"Christ, I don't know! Frame someone. Get the scent off of you," Jeremy waved his cleaver. "Leave. It's careless for you to be here. And this food won't make itself," He added sourly.

"Fine," Tyler hissed, stalking out of the kitchen.

As he did so, he had seen the Royal Physician descending the stairs after his daily visit with the Princess. The old man had been there on the first day they fed Damon, Tyler suddenly remembered. Jeremy had compelled him to forget but it didn't matter whether he remembered or not. So in the span of a millisecond, Tyler decided that the old doctor would take the fall.

Not even two weeks later, and Tyler's decision had already come back to haunt him.

He rushed into the stables, his hands shaking as he had the stable boy ready his stallion. He had had to find a doctor. There was too much death, too much, on his hands. He couldn't have one more. Soon, he was on his way into town, a cloud of dust raised in his wake.

* * *

Bulgaria had not lost the unborn Prince...yet. After being given an ice bath and a few sips of wine to calm her, Elena was gently settled into bed where she fell in and out of consciousness. She had lost a significant amount of blood.

"Did her physician not inform you that this was folly," The wrinkled old crone fixed an accusatory eye onto Prince Matthew.

Matthew stood in the corner of the royal bedchamber, squirming under the gaze of a midwife that Tyler was able to locate inside of Sofia. Tyler stood beside Matthew, looking anywhere and everywhere but the Princess. She looked awful and he was heavy with guilt.

"Woman," Matthew said weakly, "I am not privvy to what was discussed. I have no hand in maternal matters. I have a nation to rule."

"Mmmhmm," The woman nodded, her fist on her hip. "She didn't fall under this condition on her own! It takes a man and wo-"

"I know what it takes," Matthew interrupted. "Can you fix her?"

The old woman said nothing as she shuffled to the wash basin. She dipped a dainty cloth into the water and rung it over the bowl before moving towards the bed. Elena slept fitfully, her face nearly as pale as her bedsheets. The woman rung the cloth over Elena's forehead, water droplets slowly pouring onto her forehead and into her hair. Elena's brow furrowed slowly and she moaned.

"You cannot fix what is broken," The woman said finally.

"What in the hell does that mean," Matthew asked, alarmed.

"Her womb," The woman continued, "is weak. She is weak. She cannot carry this child to term."

The silence in the room was deafening.

"No."

Her voice was small, hoarse, but the emotion behind it was strong.

"No," Elena repeated.

Attention suddenly shifted onto the Princess, whose eyes were now opened into painful slits. Her hand slowly made its way onto her stomach, still relatively flat. Despite her weakness, their was a fierceness in her gaze.

"Oh Thank God, you're awake," Matthew rushed towards the bed and took Elena's hand. "How do you feel, wife?"

Elena looked up at Matthew-her once Golden God with his blond hair and dashing smile. Her hand slowly curled into a fist as she slid it away from him and at her side. The mere sight of him sickened her. Why was he even here?

"I can't lose this baby," Elena said gently, looking about the room.

Every face she fell on dropped their gaze to the floor with guilt. Just looking at her in this state, they all knew that she would die if she continued to attempt to carry her pregnancy to term.

"I can't lose this baby," She repeated to thin air.

Matthew felt sick. Perhaps he didn't love Elena, but she was the mother of his children. She was the Princess to his nation. She couldn't die, not with his child growing inside of her. He was conflicted with all of the thoughts running through his head.

"Do whatever is necessary to grant my Wife's wishes," Matthew said finally.

The old crone's face was stone for a long moment, before nodding her head once. She shuffled to her medicine bag and procured as small, velvet trimmed box.

"She needs to stay in bed," The old woman said. "Do not move her unless it is truly necessary. No more walks to the bathing room. Either have her carried or sponge bathe her."

Elena felt humiliated. She was being treated like an infant but she had no recourse. Hot tears sprang from her eyes in frustration. How could she find Damon if she couldn't leave her bed? Caroline leaned forward, a reassuring hand on Elena's arm and she whispered words of comfort. Elena turned to Caroline, her head shaking just barely. Just then, a pin prick in her other arm caused Elena to suck in her breath sharply. Before she could react further, she felt weightless. Her eyes felt instantly heavy and she felt a warmth spread itself through out her body.

"What did you give her," Matthew's voice echoed.

"Morphine," The midwife said, her voice even farther way.

"Folly," Elena whispered to herself, as she fell into a blanket of darkness.


	41. Morphine

After the room had been cleared, Matthew stood alone with Elena's temporary midwife.

"She has…an unhealthy fondness of opium," Matthew turned his gaze towards Elena. "Poppy flowers are banned from being cultivated in Bulgaria. How did you procure this?"

"This is morphine," The woman said plainly. "Not opium."

"Don't mislead me woman," Matthew warned darkly. "I've recieved the highest levels of education. It's a derivative."

"It was supplied from a traveling лекар," she shrugged. "That is how I purchase my medicinal needs-traveling doctors who happen through our market place."

"Traveling лекар," Matthew scoffed. "Isn't there anything else you could give her," Matthew asked.

"Do you want her alive?" The woman asked plainly.

"Of course."

"Then have her ladies administer this twice a day. Once in the morning and then again before bed," She pulled out several vials of morphine and placed them, one at a time, along the nightstand. "It's common medication, my Prince. Don't fault the medicine for those that abuse its healing properties."

They both turned then, towards the small figure settled into bed. She writhed slowly. Elena's pupils were contracted, her tiny hands balled into fists. Her mind, however, was a blank slate. She watched her husband and the midwife with distracted interest, her mine traveling through channels of warmth and comfort. She felt home. It had been three months, three long months since she had opiates flowing through her system and it covered her like thick blanket. She couldn't remember ever feeling so amazing. Except maybe when…

"The baby," Matthew questioned.

"She has six more months to carry this child," The old woman said, before grabbing her bag. "If she can carry it to term and both survive…" She trailed off and turned towards the door.

"Where are you going," Matthew asked.

"Your wife isn't the only woman in Sofia with child," She smiled almost sadly. "If she bleeds again, your man knows where I live."

* * *

The door shut quietly behind the midwife as Matthew stood stiffly, staring at the knob. He sighed deeply before turning his gaze back towards Elena. He walked slowly towards the bed, his steps echoing as he did so. He looked down at his wife, at Elena, and watched her with an open and plain curiosity. Who was this woman that he had married? He remembered the first time he saw her in an opium daze. He remembered the catastrophic event that triggered it. Some how, those days seemed so very long ago…

_It was night; little Matty was still an infant at that time, suckling at her Elena's breast. She had a glow about her then. It was motherhood—it was love. Back then, Elena's eyes still followed Prince Matthew with unbridled adoration. As his wife, she wanted to please him in every way imaginable. So when she bore him a healthy son, Elena was so incredibly happy. It was a credit, to her, as a wife. Even still, she had noticed as of late that her Prince had become increasingly withdrawn as their marriage progressed. However, she chalked it up to the stresses of dignitary duties._

_The shine had worn off, as it always had. Prince Matthew could readily admit that at that time, his wife was still quite lovely and charming. Her eyes were still alive, her demeanor was still almost…innocent. Regardless, after the excitement of the initial conquest had worn off—before his son was even born, Matthew found himself uninterested in his little Princess. She was quite fair to be sure, but she did not make him stir in the way that he wanted or needed to be stirred. That honor was currently bestowed onto Lord Lockwood and a succession of men behind him. Prince Matthew had no shame in his appetites. He enjoyed men along with the occassional peppering of beautiful and curvacious women. It was one of his vices. He was however, very aware of how his lifestyle would be percieved by the court. And so he kept a loose lid on his own activities. He knew people whispered. It did not bother him unless the whispers became more pronounced as they did every now and again. Damage control came in many forms: Bribery, threats, execution..._

_Regardless of it all, Princess Elena still remained in an oblivious bubble to her husband's activities. So when the Prince entered their bed chamber on that night, she was naked, pink and quite nervous. All she had ever wanted was to please her husband in every way imaginable. She loved him. Elena had never been bold in the bedroom. In fact, she didnt really get much pleasure herself out of such things then. It did please her to provide satisfaction to her husband, which was why she had never turned him away from their bed. Unforunately for her, Matthew was obviously not keen on spontaneously partaking in his husbandly duties. He did however, after much sighing and pouting, give Elena his most lazy effort. And, in his moment of climax, he moaned out the unmistakable name of Tyler Lockwood. It was hell. The crying, the refusal to meet his eyes...it was hell. It was the first major misstep that Prince Matthew had taken in hiding his relationship from his wife. A huge misstep. With a flurry of tears, she was out of his bed and gone from his room in a matter of moments._

_Pride kept him from chasing her. Pride kept her from confronting him._

_In the days that followed, Elena had become increasingly withdrawn. The love that had been in her heart had now begun to mingle with anger. Gone was the flirtatious banter and her becoming smile. In its place was sullen silence and quiet frustration. She couldn't confront him. She just couldn't. There was nothing to be gained from such an undertaking. She was his wife and frankly, he could bed a dragon and she could have no say. He was the Prince of a nation. And she, a breathing breeding machine for his dynasty. It took everything inside of her to keep from attacking Tyler. She had been so foolish. It was now that her eyes were clear, did she notice the stares...the whispers...the looks between the two of them. It was humiliating. When she looked at her son, she felt as if she was looking at lie. It broke her into pieces knowing that her son and her future children would not be borne of love, but of obligation. It cut her._

_Soon, a chance encounter with Sir John during a diplomatic reception had changed everything. Their placid conversation about the weather led way to later conversations about Elena's current morose disposition. She never divulged the specifics of her pains as it would have been folly. She did, however, listen with great interest as Sir John spoke of the benefits of opium. Biweekly visits turned weekly and then one day, after a particularly difficult day with her Prince, Sir John placed a dark rock in her palm._

_His eyes were blue, perfect, true._

_"Give yourself a measure of peace," He pleaded kindly as his hand closed over hers. "That's all this is, Princess. Unfiltered peace."_

* * *

_Matthew hadn't missed Elena in his bed since that awful night, but her lack of presense did not go unnoticed. After whispers of an inappropriate relationship between she and Sir John reached his ears, he had heard enough. No man was permitted to have his wife's attention more than he. John, however, was two steps ahead and after being in the Prince's company a few successful nights, he found that Matthew was putty in his hands. The gossip had been true. The Prince had a taste for beautiful men. And fortunately for John, he was quite becoming. Soon, even Matthew himself forgot that he ever had an agenda against Sir John._

_Distractions were easy to come by for the Prince, and he soon found that Elena's mood didn't interest him much, if at all. He would still occassionally find his way into her bed to satisfy himself but admittedly, that was the extent of his affection behind closed doors. However, when in the public eye, they were both sure to bestow loving words and affectionate touches for all to see. So when Matthew found Elena lying naked in the solarium, wearing only a golden diadem, he was alarmed. He had been advised of his wife's strange state by Tyler, but when he came home after being away two months in St Petersburg, he wasn't prepared. In fact, he had all but forgotten that his wife was cross with him for such a "silly" reason._

_Her hair was wild, shorn jaggedly at her neck. The crown was thrust onto her head, tilted to the side-its gold brilliance shining against the rays of sun pouring through the solarium windows. She was on the floor, her fingers twitching slightly, her eyes staring upward and quite vacant. Matthew swung towards the door and screamed for the guards._

_"What is this," He demanded, and then turned back, covering her with a jacket. "Who let her out this way? What in the fuck happened to her hair?"_

_"I cut it."_

_Matthew turned back towards Elena, her eyes struggling to focus on his face._

_"I cut it," She repeated again, whispering._

_Matthew grabbed her face in between his hands and stared into her eyes. Her pupils were small, like two drops of black ink in a pool of brown. She blinked, her eyes slowly connecting with Matthew's._

_"How does it feel," She asked slowly._

_"Get her into bed,"He demanded._

_"How does it feel," She asked again, a bare whisper. "now that you're starting to burn?"_

_She had stunned him into silence as she was placed into the arms of his chief guard. He watched her head bob with the momentum of the guard's stride. Matthew's anger was nearly beyond control. In the days that followed, Matthew decreed that opium was banned from production within Bulgaria. The order was swift and concise. Not two weeks later, he was told that Elena was found in the gardens, suspsended in a dream like state for hours._

And so began his wife's love affair with the dreaded blossom.

Prince Matthew watched her now, years later, once again a slave to its power. His eyes slowly drifted to her stomach, just barely beginning to show signs of pregnancy. His gaze then drifted to the morphine vials that were settled on the table. His fists slowly clenched and he felt his resolve harden.

"You asked for this," He said quietly. "You did. You said you didn't want to lose our child..."

He would take care of her dependency issues once the child was born. Until then...

He walked out of the room, not once looking back.

* * *

Something had happened. There was a level of excitement in the air that Jeremy observed amongst the high levels of the Royal Staff. It was tense, uneasy. Soon, from even in the kitchen, he could smell her blood and instantly went on the alert.

Floors below, Damon's eyes opened suddenly.

"Elena," He whispered into the dark.


	42. Little Lord Fauntleroy

The chains burst almost instantly, the clang and scream of twisting iron echoed along the stone walls.

Damon was weak, true, though still stronger than several mortal men. The prison bars, however, proved to be of higher craftsmanship than the manacles. No amount of pulling and pushing could find weakness within its metal. The faint scent of blood was in the air and even here, he could smell her. His growl came low in his throat as he paced slowly from one side of the room to the other, waiting.

"What's happening, Jeremy," He asked aloud.

Floors above, Jeremy sat quietly in the darkness of a bedroom. His hands sat limply in his lap, his legs crossed at his ankles. His shirt was covered in blood, a casualty of butchering fowl for the Royal Chef. He wasn't cut out for such domestic procedures. It was…common.

"_Wait," He said silently._

The footsteps came lightly, quickly. And before Tyler Lockwood could light the lantern in his bedroom, Jeremy had advanced upon him—one hand over his mouth and the other across his neck.

"Is she alive," He asked quietly.

For the briefest of moments, Tyler thought he was a dead man. The darkness around him and the tightness in his throat…it took a moment to realize that the voice behind him wasn't Satan but De la Savatore's footman, Jeremy. He sagged with relief.

"You," He managed to croak before Jeremy released his grip on his neck.

Tyler gasped and sucked down gulps of air, bending himself forward at the waist to get his bearings. He turned towards the darkness, his eyes still not adjusted to the black.

"What are you doing here," He hissed. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

"Answer my question," Jeremy asked calmly.

He watched Tyler dart his gaze to and fro, trying to pinpoint his location. So Jeremy paced the room slowly, his eyes never leaving him.

"She's alive," Tyler said hurriedly. "But she is weak."

"What happened?"

"The baby."

Jeremy was silent for a long moment.

"Are…are you still there?" Tyler called out, his arms folded protectively over his chest.

"Quiet," Jeremy whispered softly. "I'm thinking."

"Think quickly," Tyler cautioned. "Someone could come in at any moment."

Jeremy rolled his eyes to himself.

"And I'd hear them well before they did. Didn't I tell you to be quiet?"

Tyler, too, rolled his eyes and lapsed into silence.

"This throws off nearly all of my delicate planning," Jeremy said plainly.

Tyler looked up, now able to see Jeremy's sillouette as he stalked about the room.

"What planning?"

Jeremy said nothing, thinking.

"Did they stop the bleeding?"

"For now."

"Will she be able to carry the child?"

Tyler looked downward and then towards Jeremy's shadow.

"It'd be a miracle if she could…I…no, I don't think she will. She," He paused, "They gave her morphine."

"Goddamnit," Jeremy swore softly, punching the bottom of his fist into his palm.

All of the threading of his plans that he had created so carefully had just as suddenly become snarled and impossibly tangled. So Elena was weak, dying. And beyond that, she had been given morphine. He knew how she had been with opium—careless, irresponsible and somewhat dangerous.

"How did she react to it?"

"I wasn't in the room long…" Tyler said hesitantly.

"Tell me now," Jeremy commanded.

Tyler sighed loudly.

"The way she did with the opium. She's gone, lost…lost as she ever was when she would smoke that devil's flower…"

Jeremy summoned his courage and silently called to Damon as he sat on the edge of Tyler's bed.

_"It was the baby," He said silently._

Floors below, Damon stopped in his tracks, his hand curling around one of the metal bars of his room. He pressed his forehead against its coolness.

"Did she…" He couldn't bring himself to ask.

_"She's alive," Jeremy noiselessly reassured him. "So is the baby."_

Damon's shoulders sagged and he fell back onto the dirt floor. His palms went over his eyes and he sobbed with relief. She was alive. A beam of joy surged through him. All was not lost. Not yet.

"But there is something else…" Jeremy cautioned aloud.

"Huh?" Tyler looked up from the chair he was now sitting in.

"Shhh," Jeremy hushed him, annoyed.

Damon sat motionless, waiting for what Jeremy had to say next.

"They gave her morphine," Jeremy said gently.

Tyler felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He stumbled up and looked around the room.

"Is there someone else in here," His voice raised slightly, panicked.

"Sit down," Jeremy said between gritted teeth. "If you move or make so much as a sound, I'll break your neck."

"Are you still there," Jeremy asked soundlessly. It was a rhetorical question, as he knew the answer.

Damon slammed his head back against the bars. A cool wetness snaked down the back of his neck and into the dirt. Damon's hand went to the back of his head and his hissed in pain. He felt the wound moving sluggishly, his healing powers nearly depleted. It was like a punch in the gut. He had tried hard, so hard, to make things better for Elena—to keep her away from Opiates. And here it was, back to the beginning. He imagined her weak, her eyes vacant with intoxication. His stomach rolled. He stared at his hands for a long moment, his blood as bright as paint against his pale hands. He flexed his fingers outward, still staring at his hands, at his blood.

Floors above, Jeremy swore silently. He knew what he had to do. He stood and, turning to Tyler, he spoke.

"Where do you keep the children?"

Fear covered Tyler like a blanket and all he could muster to say was...

"No."

* * *

Her fingers drifted across the page slowly, knowing full well that little Prince Matty was dying with anticipation.

She was reading "Little Lord Fauntleroy" for the fifth time and even still, his excitement was as new as if he had never had the book read to him before. A large blanket had been tossed across the floor, Matty and Kyril sat in near identical outfits, transfixed on Anna's every word. She had outfits made for the boys that were similar to the protaganist and it pleased her to see that they had taken a liking to it. She loved them almost as if they were her own. Beside her, Xia slept quietly in her cradle as Anna occassionally rocked her back and forth.

A shift in the air caused Anna to look up from her book, a smile still on her lips. And there, in the doorframe, stood one of the kitchen help that she had recently become acquainted with-Jeremy. She couldn't say why, but seeing him caused her smile to dimple...just slightly. There was something mysterious and other worldly about him, but what it was, she couldn't say. As her mind wandered pleasantly in that span of a few moments, it then stopped dead in his tracks.

How had he gotten into the royal apartments unescorted? She stood slowly as, from behind him, limped a man...a man she had only briefly seen once before. Alongside him was a very pensive looking Tyler Lockwood. Something was very wrong. Her gaze shot down at the children, who were looking up at her with confusion at their uninvited guests. She didn't want to frighten them but she needed to sound an alarm...

Jeremy shook his head once, firmly, and her voice died in her throat. He moved towards her, his grace like a panther and took the edge of the crib in his forefingers. He pulled it slowly back, his eyes never leaving hers, until the crib was at his side.

"Don't," She began to beg.

"I won't hurt them," Jeremy said softly.

Anna's eyes flicked from Xia to Jeremy to Tyler and to...

"You're Count de la Salvatore," Anna's gaze fell onto Damon as she spoke shakily.

"Ah, so you do remember me," Damon said with a painful smile.

She beckoned the boys to her, who quickly ushered themselves behind her skirts.

"I saw you. Once. Briefly. You were in the garden with the Princess."

"That was a lifetime ago," Damon recalled softly.

"So it seems." Anna said shortly. "We were told you were dead."

He did not look like the same man she had seen months before. Not at all. He was dirty, thin and somehow paler. There was blood stains on his trousers and his chest had strange patterns of raw, angry flesh.

Anna lifted her chin and pushed the children further behind her. Damon took her gesture to heart and could tell that she had a good soul.

"What do you want of us," She asked stiffly.

Damon said nothing for a long moment before walking towards the crib. He slowly picked up Xia and held her sleeping form in his arms. She was beautiful, perfect...she was part of Elena and so Damon felt protective of her. He turned back towards Tyler who shook with fear in the corner.

"Bring your lover to me," He said coldly. "Now."


End file.
